Ingenious Virtue
by Ember Nickel
Summary: Consigned from the life of a slave to fighting in vicious bloodsports, Percy Weasley has no idea what lies in wait. Everything from a surprising family reunion to a mysterious old book brings a change from the normal routines of slavery, but perhaps it's Oliver Wood who has the most to teach him about life, death, and everything in between. (Percy/Oliver, HP Owned Fest.)
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: this was written for the "2013 Summer of Slaves" fest at HP Owned on Livejournal. The prompt I claimed was "Any setting (magical or non-magical, AU or canon) with a slave fighting ring. Masters use their slaves as fighters for their amusement, including betting, tournaments etc," with the additional suggestions "Maybe someone, who had no idea anything like this existed before, gets caught up in it and now has to fight for their survival. Maybe the romantic slave/slave pairing ends up having to fight each other. Maybe the defeated masters do not only lose money, but also their slave. Maybe the winner of such a tournament gets their freedom. A myriad of possibilities really. Somehing darkish and violent would be great, but take this wherever you want."_

_I was ambivalent about some of these tropes and even the pairing, at first. Then I started brainstorming all the different directions I could take it. And it's hardly an exaggeration to say that this fic ate my brain. Many thanks go out to the original fest mods for their gracious extensions, and to the amazing starduchess for an incredible betaing job. Any remaining errors are of course my own._

_This fic is complete, but will update here on Mondays. Starting with an extra chapter, because this one was extremely short._

"You can't do this."

Bartemius Crouch the Second stared into space, twiddling his fingers against his robes. "On the contrary, Percy, this is exactlywhat I am allowed to do. Unless you've realized that insubordination is a waste of time on both our parts?"

Percy sighed. "Swearing oaths of loyalty is a waste of time on my part, as well as yours. I don't see what you're getting out of this." He'd always been of more use to Crouch the Second in the house. Sorting papers. Writing owls. Even cleaning the kitchen! Percy inhaled the warm air. It had felt like nothing special, revisiting every nook and cranny of the dank corners, but compared to the alternatives...

"In, ah, unstable political times, declarations of allegiance are even more necessary than usual. One would not want to seem lax."

Whatever that was supposed to mean. "I'm not going anywhere. I have my spells, I have my markings, I don't see why I have to swear some extra oaths, too."

"And inasmuch as you are not going anywhere, your protestations seem unnecessary."

"I'm a clerk!" Percy blurted. "You can't throw me into an arena, I haven't the slightest idea what I'd be doing! I'll be killed right away, and then you'd be minus one clerk. At least think about your bottom line!"

Crouch the Second folded his hands and then, one by one, spread his fingers free. "I suppose," he said, without making eye contact, "that you are right, at that."


	2. Chapter 2

The witch was neither brusque nor overly kind, just going about her business. "Hands out," she said, holding the wand tight.

_Crouch II_ read the small black letters on the back of Percy's hand. He glanced down, taking one final look at the familiar pattern, then blinked as she began her incantation.

Crouch. He didn't suppose the man ever knew the meaning of the word. Standing about at work, waving his hand briskly and demanding an audience, perhaps. Or idly reading in bed while he waited for dinner to be served. Even sitting up in the top box at the games, his posture firm. Crouch the Second was not a man who had to bend and cower for anyone.

"This part might sting," said the witch briskly, taking a moment to reposition her wand so it hovered over Percy's wrist instead. Percy avoided reply, guessing, correctly, that it wouldn't be too bad in the grand scheme of things. As she continued to trace circles in the air, the form of a green snake took hold, wrapping around his arm until it bit its tail.

"You'll be wanting a poultice." She nodded at a wrapping that Percy quickly picked up and pressed against the tattoo. Within a few moments, any residual pricklings had died down. There was no incentive to make the process of being marked painful. It was a private occasion, bureaucratic really.

If you were going to all the trouble of hurting someone, you might as well do it where there was a crowd. The pay was better.

"Th—" Percy stopped himself. "Er. Where do I go from here?"

"Do you get Floosick?" she asked.

"I don't Floo that much." Flooing was for people accustomed to walking in ashes, or, at the other extreme, people who had somewhere to go.

"That doesn't matter," she said, "you'll go through worse. Come along."

She waved a hand, and he followed, keeping measured control of each footstep, marking out his own slow time. Not until they reached the fireplace did he catch sight of his hand again.

The witch called out a destination he couldn't quite place as she sprinkled dust into the fire. "In you get, then," she said unceremoniously, and Percy followed through.

"Hello?" he called, turning around, but there was no one behind him. He'd arrived in what he took to be a utilitarian kitchen. There was no corresponding jar of powder on the mantle there, but a cooking pot sat off to the side while various drawers were closed neatly. There would be spoons or spatulas. Nothing too sharp.

"You," came a high, unfamiliar voice behind him, "must be a Weasley."

"Er," said Percy, turning out the door to glance at the speaker. He caught sight first of another green snake, shining bright against the stranger's dark skin. "Yeah," he nodded. "Percy. And—and you?"

"John Messenger. You're...younger than the twins?"

"No!" he snapped, a little more quickly than he wanted to. "A couple years older."

"Oh. Huh. Must be new."

"To this gig? Very. And what kind of name is yours, or is it your job title?"

John glared pointedly, but then giggled. "For some reason nobody sends messengers out to the loo, no."

"Well, how'm I supposed to know? I'm new here."

"Evidently."

"D—" He didn't know how to begin. Of _course_ they had plenty of turnover, but was he taking someone's spot, some recent departure? He'd been a _clerk_; it wasn't like he followed the calendar. Sure, he could write up invitations for the summer solstice or express Crouch the Second's regrets that he could not make the Samhain feasts, but for Percy every day passed much like the next.

An irritated John—what did he have to rush for?—waved Percy on. "C'mon, then."

He followed out of the kitchen, stepping into an open space with a few crude markings on the ground. The sub-building they had just left stood half a floor higher than the rest of the barracks that surrounded the yard, and it seemed to be some kind of a central area. John confirmed this, with a nod as they turned. "Meals are in there. Do you have a weapon?"

"Do I _look_ like I have a weapon?"

"I mean, you know, a _weapon_, a type."

Percy stared. "I really don't know what you're talking about. I'm sorry, I don't belong here."

"That much," said John, "is clear. Okay, well, I guess it doesn't matter at the moment. Just—we're in the bunks across the way. Stay out of the side dorms."

"Fine," said Percy. It wasn't like he expected to have the run of the place.

They crossed the barren yard, walking into a hallway full of rooms with identical wide doors. "I suppose you can try this one," said John, flinging one open—seemingly at random—to reveal a plain cot and little more in the way of furnishings.

"Try it?" He raised his eyebrows. "Is someone else expected?"

John rolled his eyes. "You can have it for now. Once you get your weapon sorted out, you'll want to move around by others of your sort, you know. Fraternize with your fellows."

"Er, all right. Thank you."

John nodded curtly and jogged down the hall.

Percy tried to remember his dreams, that first night. His Mum had said dreams were real magic that no one could take from you, and they were brightest your first night in a new bed. But if he had any, he didn't remember.


	3. Chapter 3

Percy never lay awake in bed. There was too much to do. He leaped out, fumbled in the dark to put on his robes by touch, and made his way into the hallway.

Then he froze.

He was standing alone. There was no Crouch the Second to serve, no breakfast to cook or robes to clean. Just the expansive hallway. Tentatively, he made his way to the opposite door, and then sprinted across the yard. A light rain had picked up overnight.

In the kitchen there was a gray-haired woman, leaning over the stove. She blinked several times at him, rather nearsightedly. "Hullo there?"

"Er, hello," he said, "I'm Percy Weasley. I'm new—"

"Right you are," she said. "Goodness, you'll be wanting to eat up! But have a seat."

"Er...yes." He took a seat at the table, but barely was he seated than he began to fidget. What was he supposed to _do_? It was all a waste of time. Unless..."Am I late?"

"Goodness no," she said, "you're a bit early, is all. Breakfast will be when some of the others come along, but don't hold back on food, you'll have first dibs. Though, I suppose you haven't worked up much of an appetite."

"Not yet."

She laughed. "Plenty of time for that, don't you worry!"

Percy raised his eyebrows. "I think I have plenty to worry about. Do you do all the cooking yourself?"

"Oh yes."

"Can I—do you need any help?"

She laughed. "No, thank you. Go have a seat. You'll want to be meeting the others, I'm sure," she said, and gave a smile that seemed too wild for the early morning.

Nervously, Percy did so, trying not to squirm. It seemed far too long before anyone came in, but then he heard a pair of footsteps—no, two—

"What on _earth_?"

Percy turned, and all thought of squirming seemed impossible as his jaw dropped. Two well-built young men, pale, stocky and strong, were facing him. "George?" he gasped. "Fred?"

"Now come along," said one of them, "you ought to keep up. _I'm_ George and _that_ one's Fred."

"No, I'm not," said the other.

"I..." Percy trailed off. "Oh, come on." Forgetting at last the thoughts of breakfast, he rose from the table and embraced the latter twin, and the former closed in as well. That, surely, had to be the best way to build his strength, his arms wrapped tightly around his brothers.

At last, the first speaker pulled away. "Now then," he said, "what are you doing here?"

"If I'd known it was this easy to find you lot, I'd have gotten myself chucked in sooner."

"Our reputation hasn't preceded us?" the other gasped. "Tsk. Poor form on our part."

"But answer the question," said the first twin. "Surely you haven't gotten political, have you?"

"I...er...might've refused to swear an oath." Percy blushed. "Didn't see the point, it's all rubbish."

"Well, now!" he smiled. "George, I think we'll have to concede we're related to him."

"You see I am George," George said.

"That's your only hint," Fred said. "We're expecting you to keep up."

"It'll—give me a while to get used to it." Percy looked down. "I'm sorry. It's horrible of me..."

"These are horrible times, brother dearest," said George. "One does what one can."

"Particularly when what one can involves breakfast," Fred declared. "Pip pip!"

And pretty soon they were set to eating. Fred and George introduced Percy to a loud gang of men who seemed to be interchangeably referred to as JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie, and who each put away more of the cook's surprisingly hearty oatmeal than he managed. Percy got the feeling that his brothers tended to join in the raucous banter, but not on a day like that. Not on a day when they had to get to know each other, and catch up on the outside world. Despite all the notes he had taken for Crouch, all the paperwork he'd done and the messages he'd summarized, they were surprisingly uninterested in politics. They wanted to hear if there was anything from Charlie.

"I think he's left the country," said George, "he must've."

"He might not have," Percy tried to explain. "There're lots of wizards. I wouldn't have heard of him."

"What about Harry Potter?" asked Fred. "Is there such a person?"

"You git," George cut in, "would Potter be corresponding with Ministry people?"

"Well, I don't know. Maybe they're scared, maybe they're trying to catch him—"

"Not that I know," said Percy.

What could he tell them? Crouch had been a distractible master, prone to get caught up in micromanaging his own affairs instead of trusting Percy to handle things for him. Fred and George clearly didn't care. He needed to learn who _they_ were—individually and jointly—and he'd have plenty more time, he supposed, to learn the language of their world.

If he was lucky.

"Any more?" the cook asked.

Percy shook his head. "No thanks."

She laughed. "Try again at lunchtime, eh."

"Where do I go?"

"You'll be wanting to train," Fred laughed. JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie gave him a glare, as if he was usurping important practice time from those who stood half a chance, but Percy just gulped. He'd just run into his brothers, and he had no intention of getting himself killed before he could really know them. "Right. Training. Where?"

"Outside, come on," said George, waving him along. Percy followed into the yard, which was somewhat warmer already, and blinked at a burly man approaching from one of the side dorms.

The newcomer stared a moment, then glanced at Fred. "This is your little brother?"

"No," said Fred, "our mature and wizened older brother, Percy. Percy, Oliver Wood."

"Morning," Percy nodded.

Oliver paused. "...and?"

"And what?" Percy snapped.

"And what are we doing here?"

"I—I just got—arrived. I have to train. They said we're out here."

"Dare I ask what weapon you take?"

"I have no idea."

"Ever seen a match?"

"No? I don't—didn't—get out any, for some reason..."

"And you...oh, for goodness' sakes. _You_ are actually Charlie Weasley's brother?"

"Oy!" Fred cut in, "we don't all have to be of the same type. Look at us!"

"Yes, but...so help me, you look like you know what you're doing."

"Everyone was new once," said Percy.

"That's as may be. Right," Oliver sighed. "You lot, Weasley, Weasley...er...twins, get on with the laps. Weasley," he nodded at Percy, "and I will be back in time, no doubt."

"Call me Percy."

"I suppose I have no choice. Okay, come along," and he waved Percy back towards the side dorms.

"Er," said Percy, "Messenger—John—told me I shouldn't go in there?"

"Oh, not without me, we'll be fine."

Cautiously, Percy made his way in through another door, off into another hallway with larger rooms, spread farther apart. Oliver led him to a room at the end of the hall, somewhat larger and brighter than Percy's own, but almost as barren, save perhaps a box under the bed.

"Er..." Percy trailed off.

"Just need a place to talk," Oliver shrugged, "let the others start their drills, rather than putting up with this gabbering. Here's a question for you. Did you swear any oaths, when you came here?"

"No! That is, I refused to swear a loyalty oath, before, that's why I came—"

"That doesn't matter. I mean _here_, did you swear any oaths?"

"Well, no."

"Give your word not to run away?"

"No, there's no one who brought me here—"

"Did you pledge that you'd put up a proper fight, when the time came?"

"I'm telling you, none of this—"

"That is the point." Oliver crossed his arms.

"...What?"

"There's wizards out there, who give you different markings." Percy peered closer at Oliver's hand. There was not the green serpent that Fred and George also bore, but rather _Bagman_. "Who can curse you or set up wards to stop you running—maybe even control your mouth, if they're dark enough. The point is, no one _needs_ to make you swear anything, you're already a slave."

"So what?"

"Pay attention. This is your first lesson."

"Seriously?"

"Listen." Oliver turned to look him in the eye, his gaze insistent. "Every fight has a winner and a loser. The best you can hope for is an even chance—and looking at you, that's putting it generously."

Percy, unused to dissent, kept silent.

"We're going to practice, a lot. I intend to teach you how to win. But if I don't teach you how to lose, my job's only half done."

"I don't know what you're on about, but I suspect I don't need much practice."

"You'd be surprised." Oliver turned away. "Magic or Muggle, master or slave, you're just as human as any one of the people who sent you here. The amphitheater is the one place where they get to see you—where you get to prove your dignity to them. You can be courageous or honorable or dignified or what have you, even if you're the smallest weakling in the arena. But I can't make you do that. _They_ can't make you, as strong as they are, if you'd rather spite them. It has to be your decision."

"Does it matter?"

"Again, I guess you have to decide. Here, this is going nowhere. Forget about that for now. Let's see what sort of fighter you might want to be, and maybe we can get you started in some practice."

"I told you, I have no idea what's going on."

"That much was obvious. Right, this school isn't half bad at training percullors in general. It's all a question of what equipment you have, and that determines what style you fight in, though different builds tend to help."

"Well, obviously I'm a bit taller than Fred and George..."

"Right, yeah. Charlie was a petiatorus, and brilliant at it too, but the practice equipment for that is utter rubbish. You don't want any of that."

"Why not?"

"Well, at the real fights you'll have proper magical equipment, obviously. But for some reason or another, no one thought it'd be a good idea to give a bunch of condemned slaves magical tools around the clock. So, the petiatorus' weapons are particularly magic-driven, and they don't have much armor to get accustomed to. You really have to be good, in the arena. Or lucky."

"Well, that's what you're here for, isn't it?"

"Very funny. I—that is—never mind that, there's janiti and saecutors still to think over. You're tall enough to be a janitus, I reckon, and I could certainly help you out there. But..."

"But what?"

"Well, I don't know if that would be the best fit. There're some particular strategies...well, I'd talk your ear off."

"That's what I'm here for."

"All the same. If you were a saecutor, I wouldn't have to be so much on your case. And you could practice for Messenger, who could use someone else to learn with. If you're watching each other, it's easier for me to really point out what you're doing right or wrong. Plus, if there's only one of each of you, not counting Spinnet, then if they want one of us to fight from some type, there's no choice. Two saecutors, and maybe the owner would send in Messenger first, give you more time to catch up."

"Who's Spinnet, and why don't we count him?"

"It's a her," said Oliver, "and that's basically why. I barely know how to train her. Not all the schools accept women, and there's no telling what you have to learn to defend against."

"They don't fight men?"

"No, they've got their own equipment. I suppose they're as close to saecutors as anything else, at that, but Messenger refuses to spar with her. Yeah, you'll make an all right saecutor, if I have anything to say about it."

"I suppose, if you say so."

"Come to think of it, what did you do for Crouch?"

Percy blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, what all do you really know how to do? Cook, clean..."

"Oh, most everything. Writing memos, sending owls."

"Oh, you can read then?"

"Of course! And write."

Oliver's face lit up. "You don't get much of that around these parts. Hang on, let me show you something."

He knelt to pull out a box from under the bed, delicately reaching inside to pull out what looked to be an old book, or maybe a notebook of some kind—awkwardly bound together, with a few well-printed pages and several more sloppier parchments shoved in farther on. Waving his hand over the front to dust it off, he set it on his lap as he sat down next to Percy.

_Bruti Biblia_ the front cover read, and Percy squinted. "Is that a code?"

"No. Although at this point, some of it might as well be to you, but no, it's just showing off. 'Brutus' Bible,' it's called—or at least it was at first. I don't know whether there ever was such a person or a pseudonym or what. But we—added to it over the years. Various people, fighters and coaches."

"A Bible?"

"In the sense of it's got lots of truth, but if you read it cover to cover you'll be bored to tears. Here, have a look." He opened it to the first few pages, flipping past the signature of some Brutus Scrimgeour. "See? This is all about how a percullor can fight a petiatorus. You don't really care, do you, being neither. But once you start sparring, it'll give you ideas about how people used to fight. And then, a little later on, there's stuff about what a percullor might try against a saecutor. You can read that and have an idea about how the saecutors were fighting. Probably this is more useful than it should be, really. No one else reads it, so it's not like the ideas are going out of style."

Percy flipped through as the pages faded from detailed paragraphs to cursory lists to handwritten scrawls. There were a few diagrams and a few rough sketches, but nothing like some of the elaborate books of Crouch's he'd seen. "There's nothing magical about the book?"

"Nah," said Oliver, "stands to reason, wouldn't want the slaves getting fancy quills or anything like that."

"But this was all printed nicely. Someone must have had access to a typesetter?"

Oliver shrugged. "I don't know. The point is it's here, and the goal is to live long enough to add to it someday. Maybe no reading for the time being, we ought to get you to work. Yeah?"

"I...guess?" It wasn't like Percy was going to disagree.

So they reemerged back into the courtyard. "Right," called Oliver. "Hey, Messenger?"

"Yeah?" said John.

"We've talked it over. I want to try Weasley here as a saecutor. You want someone to spar with?"

"Do I have a choice? No hard feelings, Weasley, but this isn't about me."

"Well said. All right. Er, so, I guess the first thing to do is get you set up with the practice weapons, eh? Sorry, let me get on that."

He took off at a brisk pace back towards the side dorms, returning shortly after, carrying two boxes. One of them was immediately set upon by JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie, with Fred and George waiting until they were finished to dig inside.

John grabbed what appeared to be a wooden short sword from the second box, irritably flipping it. "Spinnet's been using it again, it's dented."

"Are any of them _not_ dented?" Oliver asked. "Er, don't you worry, Weasley, anything you use in a real fight will be much higher quality. And, obviously, magical."

"Then what's the point of training with this?"

"Go ask Spinnet," said John. "Actually, no, please don't."

Oliver sighed. "You need to get...accustomed...to all sorts of things. This is an easy enough starting point."

"Easy?" said Percy.

"Starting. Go on, pick up one of the swords."

Percy reached into the box and found a sword that matched John's. "Doesn't look dented."

"Brilliant, there you are then. Now, that there in your hand is a sword."

Percy glared. "I'd gathered."

"Well, the weapons have various degrees of magic in them, and that right there is something rather straightforward. In a real fight, it wouldn't be much more complicated, which is also a good thing for you, being new to all this. It'll have its tricks, mind you—chilling if you're getting closer to an important organ, warming up if you're just aiming at fat—things that can help you strike. But your job is to run after someone who won't be all that keen on having you catch up to them, and then you'd be stabbing them."

"Oh, that's it, is it?"

Oliver laughed. "Should have remembered I was dealing with Weasley humor. Right, the next thing—"

"This isn't a _joke_! It's incredibly serious! I want to know what's going _on_!"

"I was getting there. Now, the trick with saecutors is that you'll get nice and thick helmets—if you want them. There's a magical gauge, which you'll learn to control, if you balance your other armor all right. Have it close in on you, and it'll be lighter and let you run faster, but it'll choke your breathing. Let it loose, and you can breathe more freely, but it'll be heavier and slow you down."

"And if you're Spinnet," said John, "you have a normal Muggle helmet, because letting witches play with helmets is just too silly."

Oliver set the boxes off to one side. "As you'll no doubt realize, there are lots of different events in the fights, not just these."

"And we can't practice for any of them?" Percy asked. "Just these wooden swords?"

"I think you'll find that challenge enough for now. We'll see about more equipment later, but for now try to get in a few blows with Messenger."

"Like what?"

"Like this," said John, stepping forward and slapping Percy across the shoulder with the flat of the blade.

Percy's mouth opened, but he said nothing, tentatively reaching the tip of the sword out. "Am I going easy on you?"

"Try your best and we'll see." John began to run backwards. Percy took off at a sprint, but John quickly widened the short lead into a larger gap across the courtyards.

Surely Percy had to be able to run him into a wall? He pursued John, sword at the ready, but at the last second John turned and deflected Percy's sword with his own before taking off around the edge. Percy chugged on behind, but quickly saw John's lead widen. By the time the gap between them had reached half the way around, Percy decided to take a shortcut, turning around and trying to sprint again. A surprised John turned around a few steps later, and they continued to turn and turn again, until they'd settled into an uneasy equilibrium directly across from each other: John with the sword still at the ready, Percy panting.

Oliver looked him over and laughed. "Well, you can think on your feet. That's something."

"Thanks?"

"Let me try something else. Stand still."

"Gladly," said Percy, still trying to catch his breath.

Oliver reached out, and not until he was almost on top of Percy's shoulder did Percy catch sight of a tiny sculpture in his hand. It reached towards him, then pulled away—

"What was that all about?" Percy gasped, turning—three drops of blood had settled on his shoulder, the points of whatever that weapon had been forming a neat triangle.

"You're going to get beaten up in practice. Get used to it, and you'll be better able to lay into Messenger later. In a real fight, this—" He opened his palm to reveal a small piece of wood, tapered to three sharp points— "is magical. And flying at you. You've got to be fast enough to run after the bloke that's throwing it, and for that you have to be able to run, even if you're bleeding a bit. Just—try and chase after Messenger for a while, yeah? Build up your endurance. Try and just carry the sword for now, get used to how it feels."

Dubiously, Percy picked up his pace again, circling the edge of the courtyard. John cycled in the opposite direction, passing him a few times wordlessly, before seeming to lose interest and wandering over to where Fred and George were training with other large weapons. Oliver, for his part, was talking quickly to JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie, none of whom seemed to be paying a great deal of attention.

"Er," Percy called, once he'd need an excuse to catch his breath, "should I be—switching things up?"

"Maybe after lunch," said Oliver, "shouldn't be long."

There was no telling how long that really meant. It wasn't like he couldn't stay on his feet all day, but the repetitive circles just felt futile. How long were fights supposed to run? But Percy kept jogging around, ignoring the stitch in his side, until Oliver glanced at the sun and nodded, waving them in.

Lunch seemed to be made of much the same substance as breakfast, but Percy ate it more slowly, trying to prolong the rest. But once he'd realized he was the last one eating, he nervously pushed his plate towards the seemingly-bored cook, who collected it without much expression.

"Right," said Oliver, once they'd gotten back outside, "how about this. You two start doing laps again, and no funny business changing directions this time." John rolled his eyes, but Percy almost wanted to smile. His first day, he still didn't know what he was doing, but he'd figured something out long enough to throw the instructor off-balance. "Every time you meet up along the way, spar. Just, a few jabs at each other. Weasley, try and defend yourself—hold your sword close to you, shoving outward, like _that_"—he pointed to John, gesturing, his elbow flicking up. "Then keep going. Messenger—try not to scare him too much."

John rolled his eyes, but took off wordlessly, Percy trailing behind, desperate not to be stabbed from behind. The distance between them held steady for a while, but the pain in his stomach slowed him down again, and all too soon, John had caught up to him, and the flat of the blade knocked across his back. Clumsily, Percy whirled, sword at the ready. What had Oliver said? Elbows up? Down? He clenched it for a moment, nervously, and another blow sent it falling from his hands.

John didn't even bother with a sarcastic remark, just picked it up, handed it back, and took off again. Percy followed resentfully. How dare he lap him so easily! The pause gave him a moment to catch his breath, and he took off not quite at full sprint. Half of his mind was trying to remember how to defend himself in case John caught up again. The other half was too exhausted to think much.

The next encounter saw Percy prepare, turning around and clenching his sword. John aimed at it and Percy _pushed_ outward, catching John a little off-balance; he took a few steps back and then swiped at Percy's upper arm. Really more of a bruise than a wound, Percy thought, as John took off in pursuit. He'd suffered worse, tripping into walls at the end of an exhausting day.

That time around, John seemed to have lost an edge or two of pace. And so they continued, the shame of being lapped gradually outpacing the fear that the other man would slice him open. Once or twice Percy got in the first blow, chopping downwards roughly as if trying to slice dinner for Crouch the Second. Far more often, John did, until Oliver decided to distract him by throwing that three-pointed weapon at him and making him dodge out of the way. Though Percy only caught glimpses out of the corner of his eye, Oliver didn't seem to have a very strong throwing arm, and John dodged expertly every time.

The sun dipped lower, making one end of the courtyard difficult to run through because it blinded them as they sprinted past. In time, half a cycle away from each other, Percy and John sprinted across it, and then slowed their jogging paces on the other side.

"All right, that's enough," Oliver finally called. "Dinner."

They plodded off to dinner, which seemed to have the prospect of some kind of vegetables. Oliver appeared to be heading in a different direction, and Percy couldn't help but call after him, "Am I getting any faster?"

"Course not," Oliver laughed.

"What?" He'd never had to run like that before.

"You've been at it for hours, you're bound to lose a lot of energy, so you won't get faster. What, do you think I have perfect statistics, timing you with some kind of magical clock?"

"I just thought, maybe—"

"Maybe you are. We'll see. We'll try again tomorrow."

And he slipped around the corner, leaving Percy and the others to their meal. Percy gulped down the vegetables along with the others, as there didn't seem to be anything else to stall for. As they left the small kitchen, Percy thought he caught sight of a young dark-haired woman entering, but the cook immediately accosted her and he thought it would be rude to interrupt.

"Oy," said John. "W—Percy?"

"Yeah?"

"New room for you, it sounds like. This way." He waved him down the hall and pointed at another room, indistinguishable from the first. "Over here. We saecutors stick together."

"Er...thanks," Percy said, decidedly conscious of the fact that it had been his arrival that had necessitated a slowdown in John's own training. "I—I'd just as soon stay by my brothers, if that's all right."

"They're percullors," said John blandly, as if that meant something.

"Yeah...well...they're also my brothers?"

"And you've been away from them for how many years, now?"

"Does it matter?"

John sighed. "You don't want to be mixing with the other types."

"They're my _brothers_! You said I couldn't go into the side dorms either, and Oliver took me out there—"

"To show you his book or whatever he's going on about, that's different. Look, they—I'm not your master, I can't stop you, but think about it. What if you have to fight Jimmy, or someone, and he tries to slice you up beforehand?"

"Well, then, I'd be dead, wouldn't I? It's not like I know how to escape from him at this point. We eat every meal together. It's not like he'd be hurting for opportunities."

"That's because our school is small. Just you wait. If it fills up more, then they'd buy more instructors for us, and they'd keep us apart."

"Well, until then, there're enough open rooms that I don't think I'm too bothered," Percy said, tension growing in his throat. Rules were brilliant, when they made _sense_.

John backed away. "Look, I'm just trying to help you, okay? I'll be right here; come by if you need help. Just—knock first, will you? I'm a heavy sleeper."

"Yeah," Percy said halfheartedly, before deliberately trekking down to find his brothers. Fred, George, JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie (Percy decided he really ought to learn to tell them apart and, for that matter, be more confident in telling Fred and George apart), had all crowded into the same room and were apparently taking turns making up bawdy verses to a melody Percy didn't recognize.

"What's up?" said one of the twins. George, Percy suspected.

"Er—nothing," he said. "Just...wanted to say goodnight."

"Do you know," said Fred (if that other had been George), "it's been so long I forgot, Percy needs to be tucked in goodnight."

"I do _not_!" Percy blurted, and it took him a moment to note that JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie were laughing too hard to have taken it seriously at all. Fred took advantage of their chortling to walk over to the door. "What's up?"

"Don't mind me," he muttered. "Get back to them—"

"Hey, no, listen. It really has been years, hasn't it? If you're going to get to know me, you have to understand. We joke about_everything_. You'll get used to it."

"I just—"

"Yeah?"

"I mean, I don't know what Oliver's up to. I want to learn, and I know I'm rubbish so far, but he just seems a bit...off."

Fred shrugged. "It's a little early to get sick of him. When he makes you practice in the rain or snow, that's one thing, but he's been good at not getting us killed. So far."

"Exactly! The point is to be able to survive, isn't it? So what's all this about learning how to lose?"

Fred paused and took a few steps down the hall, nodding at Percy to follow him. "I think what he means is—there are things worse than dying. Like—and _don't_ go spreading this around—if anything happened to George, I'd go mental."

So it was Fred.

"I've almost been killed a couple times, right," he went on. "In the actual moment you're too...busy to panic. But if something happened to George, and I know the odds are good but I can't help myself, there'd be nothing I could do, I'd just—lose it."

Percy paused. "Is this why they don't want us mixing? John said I should stay away, so I don't get attached to you."

"I think it's more of a safety thing. But the point is, once you understand that there are things worse than dying, then it's just up to you what those things are. And for Oliver, for the real serious fighters, it has something to do with their honor."

"But he hasn't told me what's the big deal is."

"Look, whatever's on your hands, you're still a slave. If your old owner or the games overseers wanted to kill you, they could do it. It's not like you get anything out of protesting. So I think what he's getting at is to...be brave. The rest of the world's coming all this way just to see you. You might as well look good once you have their attention."

"People come out here? I thought they had special amphitheaters?"

"Oh, they do. You might as well ask Oliver about that sort of thing, remind him that you don't know all that much. In fact, what you want to do is wait till it's raining, and you don't want to go outside. Then make him talk at you."

Percy laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. You go get back to your songs."

"Gladly," said Fred, with a mock bow. "And—you know. You'll do all right."

"D'you think?"

"Course!" Fred clapped him on the back. "You're a Weasley!"


	4. Chapter 4

The weather, for all Fred's advice, was slow to change. Gradually, clouds filled the skies, and so much the better, thought Percy. It made running laps more consistent without the risk of glare.

Running laps. Always running away from John, or towards John, which in practice was the same thing, the courtyard being walled off as it was. Sometimes Oliver would throw the three-pronged projectile at him. A raptor, it was called, and when Percy stared at it long enough he could sometimes imagine a wide-open beak poised to strike. But that was usually when he'd been exhausted from laps after laps after laps.

Only after he was already too tired to think straight would Oliver change things up, having him take a few stabs at a crude wooden stake propped into the ground. A few notches measured, roughly, where the average fighter's arms and legs would be, though it seemed far too thin to be of any use during a fight.

"It doesn't matter," Oliver told him. "In a real fight you'd have to deal with shields and magically-shifting equipment. Nothing can really prepare you for the actual feel of the equipment, so you might as well hit something that won't hit back. When you're ready, we'll try you against the maces."

"Do we have time for that?"

"I think so. The games aren't coming as quickly as they have in the past."

And when Percy really looked at the size of the maces Fred and George were whacking at each other, he decided he might as well hold off. "I have a short sword. What good is it going to do me against that?"

"You'll be able to—oy! Weasleys!" Oliver broke off. For a moment Percy froze, confused, but then saw the twins were being addressed. "What're you doing practicing with each other? If I want to watch a mirror image I'll make Jimmy here duel in a puddle and it can reflect."

"A puddle?" said Fred. "It's been cloudy like this all week, no sign of rain yet."

"Point stands. Take turns with Messenger, whoever's not busy, go spar with Andy. He keeps shifting his weight to his left leg. Make him stop. It's a bad habit."

Percy blinked. "You were saying...?"

"Eh? Try running more laps."

"Laps? I'm going to have to read this Brutus of yours and see how many times he actually recommends running these cursed laps!"

Oliver broke into a smile. "That would be my pleasure."

"When it rains," Percy insisted, "and we don't want to go outside."

But when the rain finally came, it was accompanied by a visitor, and any thought of reading was abandoned as, instead, Oliver waved the fighters into his room. Percy snuck a glance at John, to see what he made of the fraternization. He did seem somewhat irritated about the whole state of affairs.

"Jordan," Oliver said briskly, "this is Percy Weasley, Fred and George's brother."

"Ah," said the visitor dryly, "I'd never have guessed."

Percy glanced over to see what Fred and George made of that. They seemed to take it in stride, as if his humor was tolerable but not groundbreaking. "Weasley," Oliver went on, "this is Lee Jordan, who's—er—"

"I'm a professional _er_er," Lee interjected. "I _er_ here and there, for hire, for anyone who'll have me. It pays well."

Percy's eyebrows wrinkled. "Is that some kind of innuendo?"

"Oh don't give him ideas," John muttered.

But Fred was laughing. "As you'll see, Lee, Percy here has rather exacting standards for humor. Won't take kindly to any of your skirting around."

"Well, put it this way. I bring you lot news about the rest of the world, and I bring the gamblers—_er_. News. About who's in form, who's looking slow. Whatever they do with that is not my business. Directly."

"So you work for bookies?" Percy deciphered. "Is this legal?"

"Frankly, I don't keep up with the law." Lee gave a good-natured shrug, tossing his dreadlocks. "I'm just as liable to be enslaved for running afoul of something I've never heard of than something I have."

"But..." he tried to think, "if you kept up with the laws...then you'd know what was illegal...so there'd be no excuse?"

"Weasley?"

"Yes?"

"You're a fighter, not a Ministry slave, don't worry about it. Let's see you spar!"

"In this weather?"

"In any weather, I'm not bothered."

"News first," said Oliver, "sparring later. What's up at the Ministry?"

"Fudge is still up on top. For now. I don't know how much longer that can last. The man's getting old."

"Crouch the First always thought he was a good Minister," Percy blurted, "from what I heard—"

Lee stared. "Who...are you?"

"Oh come now," George said, "even you can see the family resemblance."

"I used to be Crouch the Second's," said Percy. "I suppose I still am. Technically?"

"He'll have sold you to Bagman or whoever's supposedly in charge of this school," Oliver nodded. "Probably a bargain, on current form." Before Percy could puzzle out whether that was meant to be a compliment, Oliver pressed on, "So who'll be taking over? If he does retire?"

"Crouch the First has an outside shot, but he's a bit old." Lee shrugged. "There're a couple blokes named Tiberius, I reckon anyone whose name ends in i-u-s is qualified. Pius someone, maybe. Then there's the Undersecretary for—er, who's—something. Er. Brilliant word, really. Head of the police, who—er—doesn't seem to want the job, and someone Diggory, who works for—I don't remember—"

"—the Department of Negotiation with Magical Beasts," Percy and Oliver finished in unison.

They stared at each other for a moment, Oliver's eyes dark and unreadable, until he almost whispered "You should spar."

"Wait," said Percy, "hold on—"

"The weather's not getting better, so let's fit this in before Lee has to go. George?"

"At it!" said Fred.

"I know you're Fred," said Lee.

Fred shrugged, as George called, "Yeah?"

"Just a few quick blows, so we can get out of the rain."

"No one's making you watch," George pointed out.

"Quite so!" Lee added. "Make John keep tabs for you. He can give you a full report."

"When I catch my death of cold, it'll be your fault," John muttered.

"When you catch your death of cold, you'll be so grateful to me from saving you of the ignominy of death in the arena, you won't even remember to be offended."

"Oh yes, that's why I came here, to earn honor by sniffling in the rain."

"To report to your talented instructor how the sparring went! Passing along the message, as it were."

"Down to puns, are we? I knew you were struggling for humor, but I didn't know it was going this badly."

"If only you were a woman, I could unleash the subtle might of my pickup lines."

"Oy," John called, "where's Spinnet? Those two deserve each other."

Oliver, who'd been watching the conversation with quiet amusement, decisively walked towards the door. "Right. Weasley and Weasley, let's get on it. Just a few quick blows. Aim for the blades."

It was a struggle for Percy even to get a firm footing in the mud, and the larger size of George's mace didn't inspire him any. Still, he thought, at least he wasn't running laps.

So they stood facing each other, George thwapping his mace forward. Percy, having the advantage of several inches in height, tried to hold his sword high, out of reach. "Good," Oliver called from the doorframe, "now imagine the mace has spikes on the end, and you have to slice them off."

"Spikes?"

"Not all of the time, if you cut one off it'll stay off even if they reappear. Magic. Shifting weapons."

"Right," said Percy, rolling his eyes and digging in for another attempt. It wasn't hard to gain the advantage of height, although he had to leap backwards once or twice to dodge a few strikes from George. He tried to imagine the mace rolling over, showing off different sides, and conserving his energy to lop off different imagined strikes.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," Lee called, and both brothers eagerly sprinted towards the dry door. "George, you weren't even trying!"

"Was too," said George.

"I don't blame you, it being your brother and all, but how am I supposed to learn anything that way?"

"It goes with all that talk about honor. There are more important things than surviving every fight. Today the most important thing is getting out of the rain."

"Right. I'll be off, then—"

"Not so fast," said Oliver. "The other schools, how are they?"

Lee looked around. "This is all of you?"

"More or less. Spinnet's sick, she went to bed early—"

"So, yes, that'd be all of us," said John.

"Tut, tut," said Lee, "scorned your advances, has she? I'd have better taste, in her shoes."

"Skip it."

"The other schools?" Oliver repeated.

"They're like this," said Lee, "small. The Ministry is having a hard time getting ahold of some of the escaped slaves. They had to waste wizards on fighting a _Muggle_ uprising, if you can imagine! I think the Jorkins school is struggling financially, they might try and merge with yours again."

Oliver nodded distantly.

"The point is that wooden wands are going to be hard to come by. There are more and more inter-school fights as it is; people are bored of seeing the same few fights. If something's too evenly matched and they both survive, or too one-sided and too predictable for the bookies to make much profit, it's just the branches for the most part, I should think."

Percy did not know what this meant, but the tone of Oliver's "great" suggested it was in fact anything but.

"You're one to talk. You've got your job."

"Yeah," said Oliver, "that's right."

"Well, then. Till next time!" Lee waved, trooping out through the rain.

"That one," John shook his head, "can catch his death of cold."


	5. Chapter 5

Percy's next few spars against the maces were in somewhat drier conditions, though the rain left a puddle that took a few days to dry. Oliver, good to his word, watched Jimmy's reflection in it, brusquely informing him that he twisted around too much and if he wasn't careful, his defensive equipment would slip off.

Percy, in turn, got a chance to try on some of the other equipment, which in their case consisted of interchangeable shields rather than anything too specialized. Oliver would hurl the raptor halfway across the yard at him, but didn't seem to have very good aim, and nobody else did either.

"What about these?" Percy dug through a box until he found a rounded shield that didn't match the others. "Am I supposed to practice against them?"

Oliver sighed. "Maybe someday. You're really more likely to deal with a petiatorus, but I'm no good at throwing these raptors anywhere near the right way to be helpful."

"Aren't those supposed to be the most magical?"

"Yeah, but all the same, there's no helping you. I'm sorry, I should've thought that through."

"It's all right."

"Someone else want to give it a try?" Oliver held up the raptor. "Practice hurling these at Weasley here. And Messenger, for that matter—see, he does okay, even without petiatori to spar with."

"What's in it for me?" asked JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie.

"What's _not_ in it for you?"

"I'd just as soon work on something that'll actually be useful," he muttered.

"Come on," said Oliver, "anyone want to try? If you get it more than halfway you'll have the pride of being better than me."

"What are we trying?" a quiet voice came from behind him.

Percy whirled to see the young woman who must have been Spinnet. Oliver rolled his eyes as he approached her, raptor at the ready. "Seeing how far and how accurately we can chuck this. Weasley needs the practice if he's fighting a petiatorus." He paused, offering the weapon to Spinnet. "So does Messenger, I assume."

Raising her eyebrows, Spinnet silently took the raptor, whirled her arm back behind her head, then let it fly.

"Well," said Oliver, "generally you wouldn't take that much time to—" He broke off, turning to watch it land. Not halfway, but not too far from it. "That's not bad."

"Nice to do something different," she said, sprinting forward to retrieve it. "It's light!"

"Yeah. Uh. Do—would you rather be reading Brutus' book? A lot of the short-sword things are relevant. And the defensives for petiatori, you could learn from those—"

"I don't do reading." She shrugged. "It's all right."

"Well, okay. If there's something, you know, you want to work on, you can let me know—"

Spinnet flicked her free hand sideways, cutting him off, then turned and lunged forward a step before hurling the raptor again. Percy squinted at its trajectory. It was aimed higher, and wouldn't sail as far—

and Messenger immediately turned, chopping it out of the air with his sword.

"Yeah, maybe I'll see you at dinner," Spinnet said, sprinting back across the yard before Messenger could angrily swear at her.

"Right," Oliver sighed. "Where were we?"

"Don't you dare say 'about to assign me to running laps,'" said Percy. "I've had quite enough of that for one day."

"You're getting faster, so it takes less time. Should do more to keep up. Maybe in the equipment. Or you could carry a mace, to add another weight, if you can't practice with the real helmets..."

"I'll settle for disarming...someone, and their mace," said Percy, settling in to take on JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie.

As far as he could tell, Fred and George were somewhat stronger than the other percullors. As for their relative strength compared to each other, he certainly couldn't tell. He wondered if even Oliver could. They were identical twins! What could distinguish them?

The hint of an answer came on a blustery night, when Oliver had held up the others after dinner. They seemed to know what this meant, even Spinnet, whose dining schedule Percy had yet to figure out.

Oliver was holding an envelope, distantly. Had it been delivered by the Floo? Dropping letters into the fireplace seemed to be a supremely insecure way of sending one's mail. Yet for all the newly-bulked strength in his muscles and speed around the endless laps, Percy still didn't trust himself to understand what was going on.

After rereading the letter, Oliver said, "Jordan was right."

"More's the pity," said John, which seemed to be an automatic reflex.

"They're running low on fighters across the schools, I think. So, yes, it's an inter-school games up next. Ted Tonks has passed away, married into one of the old families and his widow's holding the memorial. But it sounds like we're all invited for the banqueting, now. Maybe just so they can show off and pretend they have the numbers."

"And who's our lucky man?" Fred asked.

"W—George."

Percy gulped instinctively, dimly aware of Fred's reply. "Oy, you git, jumping the queue! It was my turn!"

"Wasn't either," George called back. "You beat that bloke from the MacFarlans."

"Like that counts, it could've been a Muggle in disguise and he wouldn't have fought any worse. Couldn't control his own shield, the git."

"Whatever. Who've I got? Anyone we've heard of?"

"Not really," said Oliver. "Your average janitus, big bloke."

"Do I get a poster?"

"I assume."

"No, I mean, do you have one _here_."

"No, it's just the notification."

"Well, that's rubbish. I'll have to nick one at the arena."

"Nick one of me instead," said Fred, "I'm cuter."

"You're not either."

"My work here is done," said Oliver. "Get a good night's sleep, the rest of you. We're all Flooing off the day after next."

"We're all going to watch the fight?" Percy stammered.

"Yeah. It'll be good for you to get a feel for the place, see how things are done. Won't be a large occasion."

"Except if they're hauling us in to stand around and look tough," said John.

"Could be worse. Spinnet, this means you, be ready."

Spinnet nodded, and they gradually dispersed.

Oliver's warnings aside, Percy wasn't sure how he slept that night, except by telling himself _well at least it isn't me_. He had even less idea how George got through, but then, of course, his brother had been there before. George was boisterous the next day, flicking around his mace in every direction, while Fred in contrast seemed more closed-off, sparring with John but mostly seeming to go through the motions. Well, maybe. Percy still couldn't tell.

The next day passed even more slowly. Was the cook making the lunch portions smaller, or had Percy just lost his appetite? There was no telling. No one wanted to speak, until JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie struck up a chorus of something lewd. Percy blushed and turned away. Sure, they were more experienced than him, individually and collectively. And yet, sometimes, listening to them, he felt...relatively mature.

And then they were huddling around the fireplace, and a pair of slaves Flooed through. One of them held a small can tucked under her arm. Of course, there'd have to be two of them during the Floo. People figured it prevented runaways, although Percy wasn't sure whether that had been borne out. They mixed them up, too, so ideally no two would get too familiar with each other.

"Right," said the one with the can. It was surely far larger than it had to be for the trickling of powder they each needed, particularly if there were fewer fighters than in past years. "Out you go, then."

"Er—" Percy began, but George had strutted forward first, enunciating "Ellis Amphitheater!" and the others followed quickly. Once he'd gotten there, Percy turned around to take in the elaborately carved mantel. Images of vines and wand trees adorned the sides, and it took the arrival of the two slaves, bringing up the rear, to snap him to attention.

"Let's go," said JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie, "I'm hungry. This had better be good."

"You're always hungry," interrupted JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie.

"I'm not," he sulked, setting a faster pace. The others seemed to know where they were going, but Percy dragged behind, trying to take in all the ornate columns as they walked through the curved halls of the amphitheater. George was ahead of him, whispering conspiratorially with Fred, and Percy half-wanted to catch up. But somehow, the blood they shared didn't trickle quickly enough to bridge the gap between them.

When the hallway seemed to curve less starkly, almost straightening out, a tunnel beckoned off to their right. Instead, the other slaves hustled into a wide pair of double doors off to the left.

Percy gaped. It appeared to be a rather large dining room, the place where Crouch the Second might have eaten. No, Crouch the First, and several dozen of his nearest and dearest. "Are you sure this is the place?" he asked, forgetting for a moment how idiotic he must have sounded.

It was Spinnet, of all people, who turned to give him a smile. "You see, there are perks."

"Yeah, but..." He trailed off as George hustled over to a round table in the corner, sitting across from Fred with a wink as JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie filled in. Spinnet wound up seated next to John, both stiffening as they took their places, and Percy joined them, reaching to hold a seat for Oliver before realizing he'd shuffled off with the other slaves, their hands still bearing Bagman's name rather than the serpent on the wrist. It made Percy uncomfortable, being there with George. Shouldn't he have had something to say, something brotherly?

And then, very slowly, table by table, from the Ministerial sorts up front to the slaves even farther back, food was served. Percy couldn't help but admire the quick steps, the paths unconsciously optimized for speed, and the range of motion needed to balance the spinning trays just so. It hadn't been that long ago, and while he wouldn't have put it in so many words, he had been fit for purpose in his way.

The food eventually reached the back tables, and it seemed to be worth the wait. Fred was served first, in what appeared to be an honest mistake by a slave who gave George a side-eyed glance when she got to his plate. All sorts of rich breads had been baked and hot stews were available, far more palatable than anything Percy had had with Crouch the Second. Somewhat different, too, than the repetitive diets of the training school. Percy gulped down his first plate, and, with somewhat more difficulty, made it through his second serving. No wonder the cook had gone easy at lunch—none of their stomachs were used to that much rich food.

As he was sipping a glass of juice, Fred scooted backwards from the table, clearing his throat. John caught Percy's eye and quickly raised a warning finger to his lip, then even more quickly replaced it.

"Right, then!" called Fred. "I am very pleased to announce that I am no other than Forge Weasley, percullor extraordinaire, enchanter of...some of your hearts, I reckon. In the patently unlikely event of my premature demise tomorrow, be it advised that all well-wishers ought to lavish their sympathy upon my survivor, Gred, who—"

"We know it's you," called a voice from the front of the room. "Shove off and let your little brother at it."

"I do beg your pardon, I am quite his equal in size!" George called back. "And more so, though that doesn't count dimensions we typically exclude from public view."

"Although you'll have the chance for a smashing view of George here tomorrow," Fred noted. "Come early! Get good seats!"

And, wearing identical grins, they turned back towards the table again as chatter started up in the rest of the room. "Do I want to know what that was about?" Percy asked.

"Tradition," Fred said. "Willing your riches and glory to your heirs."

"Although it's not traditional when we do it," George helpfully added.

"It is now," Fred shrugged, hesitating a moment before adding, "and you better ruddy well make sure you live through tomorrow, mate, as I'm not abandoning tradition any time soon."

"Consider it done," said George, reaching for another bite of dessert.

If their dining room had been a lavish improvement over the training school, their sleeping facilities were anything but. Another set of slaves arrived to escort the fighters down to what appeared to be little more than a crude dungeon, although, to Percy's pleasant surprise, the showers actually appeared to vary in temperature for a change.

"Right," George said, "I get the cold side of the pillow, I reckon."

"There is no cold side of the pillow," said John.

"They're all cold sides of the pillow!"

"It's a good omen," Fred declared.

When Percy got to sleep, which wasn't quickly, he dreamed of vines that grew out of nowhere and doubled and redoubled, until they filled the sky.


	6. Chapter 6

John was already wide awake and pacing outside by the time Percy got up, clumsily extricating himself from the thin covers. Spinnet and George had slept in, and, after some rousing in the form of pillow thwaps from Fred, were duly awakened.

"You'll want to be avoiding the muffins at breakfast," said Fred, "they're rubbish, stick with the fruit."

"You've already eaten?" asked John.

"Yep."

"And...you're coming back for more breakfast."

"Yep," Fred nodded, and there was no questioning his confidence. Mock it or not, everyone trusted Fred's advice. The slave passing out the breakfast didn't look too pleased at having him return, but then again, she didn't seem to recognize which of the identical twins she was supposed to be catering to.

Then a tall man with bright hair and a handsome face came pacing along. "Right this way!" he said, correctly picking out George without hesitation. "Chop chop!"

"I will, I will," George said coolly, "only you ought to set me up with a sword first."

"C'mon, this way," said John, waving Percy and the others down another hallway. Percy gulped as he followed, making his way through the tunnels into the light of the stadium.

It was somewhat smaller than he'd expected. No elaborate decks or anything requiring too much magic to hem in place, just rows of simple seats. The visiting fighters, apparently, were given places near the front to get a good view—or to be seen by the others. Across the stands, higher up, were wanded wizards and witches in elaborate robes, some of whom draped gold binoculars around their necks. One witch was wearing a colorful sash over her dark robes, while most of the others had remained in stately black.

Then a few notes of music struck out across the stadium, and Percy whirled to spot the source—Crouch the Second had never much cared for music. Sure enough, a few small wizards were walking into the field, waving their wands to conduct instruments that played themselves. A trumpet bounced up and down; a drumstick kept time; even a fiddle had its strings chime in tune in response to the wands floating around.

A dog ran out onto the field shortly behind them, howling at the drum, and Percy flinched. "Is that another omen?"

"A dog?" John laughed. "Nah, just means they can splurge for an Animagus fight. Wonder whether it can pick on someone its own size—ah, here we go." A cat was slowly following suit, bristling its tail and pacing around the edge of the field.

"Those are..." Percy trailed off.

"Wizards. Or witches. Look, they know what they're doing." The dog began to chase the cat, which quickly circled around and bit the dog's tail, before spitting it out in distaste as the dog ran off again.

"What are they in here for?"

"I mean, it pays well enough. If you can master the magic and are lucky enough to have someone about your size around at the right time, it's worth a chance. Pity the ones who turn into little bugs, things too small to see." The animals butted heads, twitched ears, pounced off again.

"They're not slaves," said Fred. "It takes years to learn, because you need wands at first. But everyone wants to try, just in case they're strong enough to get it right."

"Yeah, it's just for laughs." The dog eventually decided to stand its ground, turning at an angle and preventing the cat from approaching.

"Not always," said Fred. "Billy was—"

"What about him?" Percy said eagerly.

"Freedman. Learned to transform, eventually, and they chucked him in. Ran into a nutter wolf, and—I mean, I'm only repeating what someone heard from Charlie, this was before our time—"

"Right," Percy said. That was the thing, wasn't it. It wasn't like all the brothers knew each other well enough to be properly family, and yet he couldn't help but fear for George already.

But the dog and the cat eventually gave up chasing each other, waving their tails to the crowd before they transformed back into a pair of wizards who good-naturedly sent up blue and orange sparks with their wands, walking off the field as the music struck back up again.

The wanded spectators milled around, talking things over. The witch in the sash was shaking other dignitaries' hands, while the Animagi were clapped on the back by friends and relations.

"Oy," said Fred, "I need lunch."

"You just ate," Percy felt compelled to point out. "...Twice."

"Yes, and I'd rather fill up my stomach than spit it all back up, which is what I have half a mind to do if we stick around much longer."

Before Percy could ask what he meant, John pointed out, "It's a private games."

"Oh. Right you are. Well, they'd better get a move on."

Percy was trying to look around to see if there was anyone he recognized—Crouch the Second? Some of the other Ministerial sorts he'd run into? But eventually, a quicker drumbeat interrupted his thoughts, as a small group of men came pacing onto the pitch.

George was recognizable mostly by his mace than anything else, a heavy helmet obscuring his bright orange hair. The other fighter was similarly armored, but bore a spear and one of those rounded shields, rather than a mace. The remaining men seemed to be officials of some sorts, making their way over to the sides with their wands. A flash of white light issued forth from the first wand, and then the weapons flared.

As George charged forward, spikes blossomed from the top of the mace, and his shield shrunk away. The other fighter retaliated by doing something with the round shield, then hurling it across the arena. The disk sailed through the air, but George batted it down. He chased after it, but the other fighter—Jeffy someone, to hear the crowd howl—was quicker, diving to pick it up and fending George off with a spear. Quickly, George dodged, but his legs were vulnerable, and the first blood seemed to go to Jeffy, who was still picking himself up.

George backed off, growing his shield again as his mace shrunk into a club. Regaining his strength, he stiffened into place and took a few swings at Jeffy, back and forth. Jeffy's armor was thick, but his spear was thin, and it was tough for him to get a blow in edgewise (or in any other direction). So he backed off, readjusting his shield.

George pursued, spikes at the ready, and that time Jeffy hurled up his shield in a flash to rebuff the mace. One of the spikes snapped off, and the crowd cheered.

"He'll be fine," Fred called, "those are weak—"

Were they really that much slower than they had been when they started, only minutes before? They seemed to Percy to have already lost a step, facing each other more warily. George seemed to keep his shield at a constant size while various spikes flickered in and out of the mace, daring Jeffy to come any closer. The other man instead charged to the side, coming at George from behind only to immediately dodge the falling mace. He countered with his spear, poking it through, and then battering at George with the round shield again. George whirled, his attention split, and the spear caught him in the back.

"C'mon," Fred roared, while the crowd cheered on Jeffy all the more. George recoiled, kicking at his opponent. A crude action, but nevertheless one Jeffy had not been expecting. Again, the shield fell from his hands; again, he clambered to reclaim it while George caught his breath, inasmuch as he could—the bleeding did not immediately clench up, like it had the first time around.

At Jeffy's next approach, George took off with surprising speed, rounding him and swinging again with the mace. But Jeffy's armor stood up to the challenge, and he used his shield to counter George in the air before swinging down with his spear to give George another wound, mirroring the first.

That time, George fell to the ground, and seemed to gesture something with his hand. The fiddle riffed out a simple rhythm, and Jeffy backed away.

The wanded spectators began sending sparks up into the sky—some green, others red. "C'mon, c'mon!" Fred yelled, which did not strike Percy as the most opportune moment for cheering—Jeffy was pacing and George unmoving—but he supposed there were strategic nuances he'd yet to master.

Then a bolt of fire came blazing forth, from the witch in the sash, immediately dissipating into the sky. The crowd cheered, Fred all the more, and Jeffy dropped his weapons. The officials began hustling to George's side, waving their wands—within a few moments, he'd sat up and waved. One of them cast a few spells at Jeffy, who smiled, and another gave him what seemed to be a branch sliced from a tree, the leaves still green. He waved it to the crowd, and together, they slowly walked off the field.

"That was it?" Percy gasped. It had been so quick.

"That's it," John said briskly. "So, you see that? He survived—George did—obviously. The other bloke won, though, that's why he gets the branch."

"Er...yeah. Sure."

"As long as there's no one else today, keeps it moving along nice and quick." John rolled his eyes. "The big shots can Apparate back and get in another half-day's work."

"And what about us?"

"Oh the Floo isn't that slow. But if we stall, maybe Oliver won't make us run laps."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up," Spinnet muttered.

"I didn't know you were part of this conversation."

"C'mon, then," said Fred, and they trickled out of their seats, slowly making their way to the fireplace. Very slowly, in fact, as three different witches struck up conversations with Fred, complimenting his strength and talent, before one by one realizing that George would not have had time to transport himself out of the arena, take off his weapons, and run up into the stands.

By the time they eventually made it to the fireplace, John shooting Fred an icy glare, George was already there, looking healthy. Fred called over something that sounded like "You git, had me worried for a minute there," before they hugged, and after they broke it off, George gave Percy a smile. "So? Have it all figured out, now?"

"I had no idea what was going on," Percy admitted, "so I couldn't be too worried for you. More so than when I came in, anyway."

"Oh, I like the sounds of that. Forget all your clerking and book-learning, you really don't have a clue. It's brilliant."

They Flooed back—"Bagman school!"—and nobody made them run laps.

"Well done, you," said Oliver, nodding at George, who smiled.

"Er," said Percy. "That was...er..."

"Yes?"

"What I mean to say is I think I do need to read this book of yours and figure out what's going on."

"Oh, way to ruin the mood," said George.

"There'll be time enough for that," said Oliver. "You go on and celebrate."

"Can't. Fred here has been flirting with all the eligible women."

"They seemed to prefer the other bloke," Fred sighed. "Can't imagine why."

"Oh, let him have them," said George. "He'll never be satisfied. Git."


	7. Chapter 7

It took a day or two for Percy to piece together that, in fact, George had been in danger of his life. Even remembering his earlier conversations, he couldn't quite guess how much the possibility had scared Fred. But, nevertheless, the hostess—Madam Tonks—had used the sparks as a way to gauge the mood of the crowd, before sending out the fire as a sign that he should be Healed.

Coincidentally, that was just about how long it took for Fred and George to consider that, perhaps, they weren't that much better than the other percullors after all. Instead, the argument went, they ought to join the others by becoming known as "Freddie" and "Georgie," to match the disyllabic trend. George had been easy to convince. Fred was more skeptical. How were they going to swap names? "Greddy and Forgie just don't sound right at all!"

But, swayed by George's sentiment, he'd come around. "You lot in? Perc-y, I suppose you don't have much choice. Johnny?"

"We're not percullors," said John.

"Too right you aren't. Missing a trick, innit? You could be Percy the Percullor. It'd sound neat."

"I'd be rubbish."

"Come on," said George. "Johnny."

"Oh, why not," said John(ny). "Good to change your name every once in a while. Freshen things up."

Percy, having at last built up a certain adequacy at laps, instead turned to Brutus' book in the mornings, before sparring in the afternoons against the stake, or whoever else was within range. It made him feel awkward the first few times, pacing over to Oliver's room to borrow it while the others were outside. But Oliver pressed it on him. "I invite them week after week, but nobody else wants to learn from it. You're the best thing that's happened to them, really, as I don't feel the need to keep nagging at them quite as much. Just as long as someone wants it."

"Do they even know how to read?" Percy asked. "Maybe they need something easier, you know, to get started with."

"I've offered to teach them, just with something practical! And it never works. But here, chapters three and four are the ones you want to start with."

Paging through, Percy quickly saw why. The first chapter was full of brash epigrams for how percullors like George or Fred could best deal with petiatori, beginning with illustrations of men in maces thwapping the flying raptors out of the sky. The second, somewhat longer, contained advice for percullors fighting against janiti, the fighters with rounded shields like Jeffy. A blocky hand had scribbled in the margins, with crossouts every other page and distorted doodles wherever they could fit. Some spilled over to the edges of the pages, so that they could only be seen when the book was closed and viewed head-on.

Then came chapter three. As promised, it was a guide for percullors handling saecutors like himself, and Percy had to piece it together backwards. What were saecutors doing, that Brutus was trying to defend against? Slicing off mace spikes? Taking advantage of their height, raising their shields? Trusting to the innate magic in the short swords?

For that matter, Percy thought, squinting at another paragraph, could he be sure there had ever been such a person as Brutus at all? On one page the writer seemed to be addressing elite volunteers who'd been trained in ministerial life. "Do not waste energy. Fight as if you were discoursing in the Wizengamot with a hoarse voice, and make every stroke count." The next, he'd be mocking slender petiatori who were scarcely taller than the excitable women who flocked to them after a victory. Maybe it had been just one man putting together various pieces of advice he'd overheard from very different fighters—that would make almost as much sense. Besides, the others seemed to imply that percullors fought janiti most often, so how would one person have learned so much about fighting all three?

He spent so much time trying to make sense of Brutus' practical advice, and was still so exhausted after the physical training, that he almost forgot that Oliver had nagged him about reading the fourth chapter as well. Again, it started out in an elevated register, addressing fighters who seemingly cared about the military campaigns of the day, whether that was subduing the centaurs in the west or the rogue elven armies up north. Something or other about how fighters ought to be a good example for soldiers, someone they could learn from.

And then, someone quite different seemed to be talking. A nervous man, knowing all about the omens slaves whispered to each other, absent any other magic. "Perhaps you know that a wizard who is killed will be given the chance to return and haunt the world. Never do such a thing! For the old slaves know well that a slave who does not accept death will be chained forever, cursed to serve his master in this world without end. Just like a soldier killed by goblins who chooses to haunt the earth will never see the light of day again, but endure forever in the darkest caves. Rather, you must face your death without fear. Only then will you be made complete in virtue."

"This," said Percy, "is rubbish!"

"Now you're coming along," Freddie cheered. "How long did that take you to come up with?"

"Who's to say that dying makes you virtuous? If you're properly dead, you're not talking to anyone, are you? And whoever heard of a haunting in goblin caves?"

"Brutus," Oliver said mildly.

"Do you really think there was such a person? Just one man, writing all this advice?"

"I'm not sure. Does it matter?"

Percy hesitated but finally said, "Yes."

"How so?"

"Well, let's say it really was just one man. Then, obviously, he wrote it all before he died—oh don't you start, Fred!"

"It's Freddie," said Freddie. "Please."

"All I'm saying is, there could be hauntings, or he seems to think so anyway. So if someone, still an active fighter, was to write all this down, trying to give other people advice, he'd have wanted it to be read."

"There are...circumstances...in which people retire from active fighting. Manumission or otherwise," said Oliver. "But please, go on."

"It doesn't make sense, that he'd want everyone else to know his secrets, rather than keeping them to himself. So he could win."

"Well," Oliver said, smiling, "maybe he thought that helping everyone fight well—beautifully—was the most important thing he could have done."

"More important than survival?"

"One presumes."

"You're impossible," said Percy.

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"No, for some reason we don't have any books about people I'm likely to actually fight!" He thrust the book back into Oliver's hands and stomped across the yard, purposefully turning his back as he rummaged through the box for a sword. By the time he'd picked it up and was swinging at the stake, Freddie had joined him with a secretive smile.

The next morning, Percy made a point of not looking at the book, even running laps for a little while before sparring with JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie. By lunchtime, he was bored. At least as a clerk he'd been doing useful work. Someone had benefited from his tedious day-to-day life. Who got anything out of him running laps?

When he did at last work up the nerve to approach Oliver a few days later, Oliver didn't turn to look him in the eye, but he did mention, "You know, you might be right. About there being more than one person writing those first few chapters."

"Do you really believe that?"

"We can't know for sure. You _might_ be. And if there's more than one person, well, that's all the more reason to be reading it, isn't there? Different people would have different pieces of advice." He forced a smile.

"...Right," said Percy. "Thanks."

That time around, he began reading at the beginning. Well, percullors fought petiatori. Maybe there'd be something he could learn, too.


	8. Chapter 8

"Would you ever want to learn to read, though?" Percy asked. He'd spent an hour reading and rereading the same paragraph about janiti shields until his eyes glazed over. It didn't help that whoever'd been scrawling in the margins had very untidy handwriting, and their loops often interfered with "Brutus'" painstaking type. "Not this, I mean. Just anything."

"No," said Georgie.

"Well, say you were set free and had to get a job in the real world."

"I'll deal with that when the time comes."

"What about to learn what's going on in the outside world, now?"

"We have Jordan to sneak in and tell us that. Or the letters saying who's about to fight. Nothing important. Look, we can't all work for ministry blokes."

"I'm just saying—"

"Even if I could, who'd want a slave to read?"

"Yeah," said JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie, "they don't trust us, they'd think we'd send messages to Harry Potter or some sort."

"Who's that?" asked Percy.

"Oh, he's a manumitted petiatorus from the MacFarlan school. He's leading a slave rebellion, way down south."

Before Percy could mention that he'd never heard of such a threat, the rest of JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie cut in. "He was never a fighter. He's just a normal slave!"

"No, he has a tattoo on his head! It's an omen."

"He made his own wand from a magic tree."

"No, the rogue elves made it for him. He's in league with them and he's leading the uprising."

"No, he's a Muggle. He can't make wands, but he leads the elven army anyway."

"I heard he was an Animagus. He doesn't even _need_ a wand."

"And Fudge is scared of him, which is why he's going to resign."

"No, he has Fudge under a hex. He's only leaving him in place because the alternatives are worse."

"He's like a centaur, only he's half wizard, half elf, and half goblin!"

"That makes three halves."

"It's magic, innit?"

Percy raised his eyebrows. "I thought you _didn't_ get news from outside."

"Oh, all the other fighters know about him," said the one who had last spoken. Jackie? "Word travels."

Johnny, behind them, was shaking his head out of sight of the others. Percy tried to give a diplomatic shrug. "Well. If you'd ever like to learn to read, let me know."

"Maybe," he smiled. "I know a little bit. And I'll get to practice when the new announcement comes in."

Percy raised his eyebrows. "Is that due any time soon?"

"Should be, yeah. Jordan mentioned that Lestrange was fading—the sister of the woman who hosted it last time. If she kicks it, her husband should be rich enough to put on a fight of some kind."

"I...didn't remember," Percy admitted. Lee's last visit had been memorable mostly for him getting into a shouting match with Johnny over something trivial, perhaps as unimportant as the impromptu name change.

Jackie gave him an appraising glance, as if to ask why he was a particularly reliable teacher, before wandering off.

In fact, once he'd made up his mind to disregard some of Brutus' more outlandish tangents somewhat, Percy found himself digging into the other marginalia. Whoever had scribbled a few pages crammed in after chapter four might have been a house slave, or even a volunteer, with neater handwriting than the large, blocky letters of the few paragraphs that came wedged in after that. Then there were the diagrams—sketches showing the best way to run around, cutting off the fleet petiatori. It was helpful enough, trying to practice turning quickly and pivoting his way around—and at least, much more entertaining than monotonous laps. All the same, the diagram felt lacking.

"The wanded want us to fight well, don't they?" he asked. "I mean, we're putting on a show for them. They want to see some quality."

"Of course," said Oliver.

"Then why not enchant these pages? Something so they can move like real magic books, we'd learn better from them."

Oliver laughed. "You're one of the first people who actually tries to read it. Most don't bother, as you've seen."

"But you hold onto it."

"I think it's useful."

"And—I mean, I can't tell, George had a scare last time around. How do your—how do we rank, in the grand scheme of things? Does it work?"

"Not perfectly."

"But you stick with it."

"I would say you were free to take my advice or leave it..."

"But it's not like we're at liberty to do much of anything. Well, thanks anyway, I—"

Percy broke off. It wasn't like squinting over pages was exactly a pleasant reminder of his old life; there hadn't been anything particularly fun about reading, before, it was just something to be done. And yet, Brutus' was, for all its strangeness, a proper book. Not the sort of things slaves got to read, at least not the ones with names seared into their hands. No, even Oliver was technically normal chattel, but he kept it with him.

Maybe it was better without magic, after all. There were enough weapons thrown through the air, enough people running around, that Percy could envy having something of his own that would stay still.

Halfway through lunch one day he found himself reaching for seconds. JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie were fiercely arguing over whether you could predict a master's leniency based on his wand wood (Jimmy: beechwielders would release you most quickly; Jackie: they were all just as bad; Andy: no master would be so foolhardy as to simply let his slave know what sort of wand he wielded because it was secret magic; Ritchie: pear was most trustworthy). Freddie and Georgie were imagining all sorts of outlandish theories about what happened if you tried to pluck hair from the mane of a lion Animagus (assuming you managed to survive the encounter; who knew what wanded fighters could do?). Johnny was hurriedly leaving the table. Spinnet was approaching. And it struck Percy that he had not once found it strange that someone else was cooking and serving him food, not in days or weeks, maybe.

He had eaten plenty, and though he was still taller than his brothers, had filled out a frame that was still, after all, on its feet most of the day. And yet he had not cooked. He could remember how, given the chance. Could adjust to whatever quirks of that particular stove there might be, without asking, without daring to intrude on anyone else's business. Instead, he followed wherever someone asked him to go.

Perhaps not even Oliver, whose practice ideas were less and less of the "how about you run some more laps" form and more of a "did you see on page seven, where Brutus has drawn this, do you want to try pacing after Johnny and see how long it takes you to tire?" No, he waited for the summons, sent into the fireplace and picked up by Jackie who, good to his word, picked it up and tried to read it one day at supper.

"Well?" Freddie irritably asked, after another squint. "What's it say?"

"'Snot fair," Jackie muttered, handing it over to Oliver.

"_What's_ not fair?" Freddie blurted. "They haven't—"

"You three," Jackie waved, "all have the same second name. And, and _you_ two _changed_ your names, so how'm I supposed to know who's who?"

"Ssh," said Oliver, folding the note back up and giving Percy what passed for a smile. "Your first fight."

It wasn't the most encouraging of tones, but then again, the implication was that there'd be more than one, and Percy supposed that beat the alternative.


	9. Chapter 9

_Oops, forgot to upload last week, so here, have two chapters!_

Rain fell that night, and Percy didn't think he'd ever get to sleep, listening to it pour down. There were no windows. He supposed nobody would want weak points in the walls. Even wooden swords, in strong-enough hands, had their dangers. All the same, even if there was no way to see flashes of lightning, he could hear the persistent storm just beyond.

To his surprise, he did get to sleep eventually, but he was dazed the next day. People's voices seemed quiet—maybe they weren't talking to him?—and practicing in the mud felt like an entirely different exercise. Everyone took turns flinging the raptor at him, and all he could do was run one way or another. To dive low was to sink into the mud; to jump, to risk landing on his face moments later. He could buy moments of time, but what did they amount to?

He tried to read Brutus' book one more time—had the handwritten section scrawled in after chapter four said something about the weather?—but fell asleep with it open on his bed. He woke up shortly after and thought it was day, making him even more tired, but once he'd tested the door realized that it had been a light sleep in the darkness of night. Closing the book and setting it at the foot of the bed, Percy settled into an uneasy sleep.

He slept through breakfast and was irritated to find that everyone else had eaten without him. "You get the fancy meal tonight," Johnny pointed out.

Percy's mind trundled slowly to the foregone conclusion. "So do you."

Johnny shrugged. "Perks of our glamorous life, I guess."

When they Flooed over, Percy recognized the name of Ellis Amphitheater even before seeing the elaborate vines of the fireplace through which they exited. "Wait a tick. We were here last time, but it's a different host?"

"Of course," said Johnny. "Remember? Wandeds, Apparating all over."

"Right," Percy rolled his eyes. "Let's hope the food's as good. I'm starving."

"Oh, buck up," said Georgie. "After all the nutritious porridge you've had, day after day?"

"Believe it or not, yes," he muttered. "C'mon."

For all his nerves, it felt good to feel his brothers and fellows following him around for a change. He figured out the right door by process of elimination—it was the only one on the far side of the hallway, with noise perking out of it—and stepped through, quickly followed by the others.

Again, they sat in the back of the room, but that time there were several more strangers coming by before the food even arrived. Percy stiffened as one of them approached with a strange device he didn't recognize—it gave a magical burst of light as the man pointed it at his face, and Percy squeezed his eyes shut in terror.

"That's no good," the man grunted.

"Oy!" Percy interrupted. Didn't he know who he was talking to? None of them would have been there without him.

"Easy, now," said someone else. Percy looked up to find Lee standing by, arguing with the other man. Only in contrast to the stranger could Percy see how young Lee actually looked. When he came by as their intermittent contact with the outside world, authority lent his voice unmerited decades. "I could've sold you pictures ages ago. Don't scare the bloke, for crying out loud."

"Oh I'm not giving you any more money," said the man sulked. "You and whoever your friends are have quite enough as things stand, I reckon."

"You don't fancy a wager, then?" he smiled, hopefully.

"Shove off, this's one-sided. Poor bloke doesn't know what he's at." He slapped Percy on the back of the chair, and Percy scooted in, uncomfortably. "Give us a good show, eh?" And, snickering, he paced off.

"Ignore him," said Lee, "he's just in a sulk. I suspect Lestrange owed him some money."

Percy glanced around. "When's dinner?" The slaves were already serving the witches and wizards in front.

"In a bit. Shall we see if we can get Oliver to cart some of this around? Things would move faster."

"Let's not," he sighed.

"Suit yourself," said Lee.

At least by the time dinner got to Percy, there was no one to confuse him with. Freddie and Georgie, despite the familial resemblance, deferred to him, and he eagerly dove into the stew. A second and even a third helping followed shortly after. At least after the initial serving, the kitchen slaves seemed to mill about the back of the room, not going back in any order but dishing up seconds randomly.

A smaller man—Terry, was that his name?—stood up on a chair shortly afterwards and began raving about how, in the unlikely event of his death, his wife should be taken under the protection of a kitchen slave of some talent. "Go on then. You make a speech," Georgie nudged Percy.

"What? No." Percy blushed. "I haven't got anything to give away."

"More's the pity," said Freddie. "We really ought to find you a wife."

Percy, already blushing, did not react.

"After you win tomorrow," Georgie pointed out, "the women will flock to you. With our good looks and your enchanting...er...book-learning. Thing."

"Yeah," Percy said, nodding, hoping it would get them to shut up. "I'm sure that's how that works."

Johnny cast him a wry look as they made their way down to the dungeons, but said nothing.

Perhaps the storm had been helpful in its way, tiring Percy out, because he thought that without the unusual levels of exhaustion fear had built up in him, he would never have slept at all. How lucky for the mere fighters that wands could Apparate people, that events could be organized quickly, that they didn't have to wait so long with that fear paralyzing them, how lucky...


	10. Chapter 10

_If you're jumping directly to the most recent chapter, note that I forgot to upload Chapter 9 last week, so I'm posting two at once-so don't skip that one! ;)_

"How are you already up?" Percy groaned, as Johnny paced by outside.

"I'm older than you young slugabeds, I don't need as much time to lay about."

"I don't think you are, actually." Though maybe the long time it took him to make a guess was undermining his own argument. Some more sleep wouldn't hurt. Maybe...no.

He climbed out of the crude bed and had soon made his way down to breakfast. "The muffins," Freddie declared, after Percy had made a point of waving one in front of his face as he picked it up, "are _still_ rubbish."

"I don't think so," Percy repeated, biting in. "Hrm. This is actually good! You git, you're just trying to scare us off so you can have them all for yourself!"

"I would never...! All right, I would do such a thing, but I didn't, I swear. How can you not tell the difference?"

"Well, it's better than oatmeal, isn't it?"

"Not really. And it's nowhere near as good as the bacon."

"What bacon?"

"Ministerial games have proper bacon. You'll be wanting some."

Percy raised his eyebrows and polished off the muffin.

"Are we past due or what?" asked Johnny. "Seems like there hasn't been a big games for a while."

"Well, we'd need something to celebrate. An adorable little heir of the Minister to be born, but you know, I'm not sure our esteemed head of state can get up to much impregnating at his age," said Freddie. "Maybe he has a birthday coming up? Ask Jordan."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"You'll pass me the fruit is what you'll do," said Freddie, and Johnny acquiesced.

Just as Percy was hesitating whether to ask for it next, that handsome man came striding through the door. "Percy?" he called.

"That'd be me."

"Hullo!" he waved. "I'm Ludo Bagman. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

"It..." What was he supposed to say? Something honorable, something sincere? "At your service."

He rose from the table, conscious of the others' eyes watching him. If they threw him off, how could he possibly stand up under the gaze of the spectators? Twitching, Percy made his way forward.

"Go get 'em, Perce," said Georgie—or Freddie, he wasn't perfect at telling them apart sight unseen.

"Perc_y_," one corrected. That sounded more like Freddie. Giving a nod, but not turning, he followed out the door.

"We're going to see about getting you your weapons!" Bagman chirped.

"Yeah? Er...good."

They walked around the outside hallway again, and then into another room, which had low ceilings and was lit by a few torches on either wall. The air smelled of smoke. "You're a saecutor, if I hear tell?"

It took Percy a minute to parse that. Bagman had pronounced the jargon in a slow, drawn-out accent. "Yes." Remembering his brothers' strained relationship with the truth, on occasion, he felt compelled to add, "If you'd heard wrongly, would there be enough equipment for me?"

"Oh?" Bagman paused, as if the question had never occurred to him. "Surely. We'd have sent someone for it."

"Right."

"Here's your sword," said Bagman, nodding at a short sword on the opposite table that neither touched.

"Warm for fat, cold for vital organs," Percy said, reciting what he'd learned from Brutus' book. Apparently the difference in temperature was enough to be immediately sensible, though he'd never gotten to practice.

"Basic armor, here."

Slowly, Percy tried to put it on, mirroring the diagrams he'd seen. He knew better than to ask Bagman for help—no master trusted a slave who didn't look like he knew what he was doing. But how could that possibly fit? It wasn't like there were right-hand and left-hand versions of the various sleeve guards he slipped on, were there?

Hesitantly, he crossed the room to pick up the sword. It felt like a cool piece of metal. No help there.

"Oh, and your helmet!" Bagman waved a large, pale hand towards an equally large metal helmet, sides welded together through some strange craft or another.

"Yeah," said Percy. How was that supposed to work? Everything he'd read made reference to some sort of toggle—whether on the thrown raptor, wielded mace, protective shield, or that bulky and unfamiliar helmet.

"Try it on!" Bagman offered. "There should be a flap, hanging down over your neck."

Percy dubiously did so, the weight—on top of the armor he already had tightened on—feeling an impediment to getting any serious fighting done. But, it fit neatly enough, and the flap duly fell into place. Sure enough, a narrow groove ran from side to side, with a metallic bead sitting in the middle.

"Can you hear me?" he called, through the thick metal. There were eye-holes to see out of, but the helmet otherwise obscured his face.

Distantly, Bagman's voice replied, "Yes, of course! Now slide that around."

Percy raised his arm, craning it to keep the guard out of the way, and slid the bead back and forth. Sure enough, the closer the helmet squeezed in on to his face—paradoxically—the less weight he seemed to feel, and the farther away he pushed it, the more it sunk into him, and the more he could sniff the smoke in the air.

How on earth was he supposed to have any idea what to do with those, never mind have time to control them during a fight? When he got through, he decided, he was going to thwap Oliver for never giving him any advice. No, better, ask Bagman why they had nothing worthwhile to practice with.

Bagman was gesturing him out the door. Through the eye circles, which constricted his peripheral vision, Percy saw Bagman's hand flash into view. A blank mass of skin—no owner's name tattooed, no snake on the wrist. He was a freeman, and how could Percy question him?

He paced out to the arena. Untold numbers had come and gone—but mostly come—before them. He wondered how many would have desperately rather rushed off to the bathroom one more time. Why wouldn't they? What worse could be done to them?

And then he caught sight of a small man who must have been Terry, his frame and armor both smaller than Percy's own. He might have been unrecognizable, even had Percy met him, the eyeholes were so narrow.

Bagman vanished, and Percy gave a start before remembering that he must have Apparated. There were the officials, gathered around, and he was supposed to wait for the trumpet—no, the burst of light—

There.

The helmet, Percy decided, must surely have been magic. How else to explain the dullness of the roar that surrounded him? The spectators should have been mad, screaming, even amplifying their voices through magic could they choose. And yet, there was little he could hear. Instinctively, he ran backwards, as the petiatorus chased after him, raptor at the ready. It did not seem to be made out of wood, but rather a strange, bright metal that hovered too long in the air—controlled by magic, no doubt—and then crashed off Percy's arm guard. Whirling in shock, he charged forward with his sword. His opponent came barreling towards him but veered away at the last moment. Percy's momentum carried him forward, and there was no chance to strike.

Instead, he caught his breath, reaching up to his chin to experiment with the toggle. The helmet squeezed in, sitting lighter and, he hoped, making him lighter on his feet. He took off at a rush, and sure enough, was quickly able to catch up to the man who held the raptor aloft. Briefly. And then sliced it down. That time, it hit Percy's leg as his sword was grazing his opponent's back; the latter whirled away, bringing the raptor with him. Or was it just gliding after him through the air? Percy couldn't see.

Okay, so he'd have to adjust his leg shield. No, no time, just running. He was good at running, he thought briefly, and it wasn't like he had enough visibility for the fact that he was running in front of so many people to make a difference. But all of a sudden, he felt himself panting, the helmet beguilingly thick. He reached for the toggle again, and as it weighed him down, only just jerked his hand away before the raptor went whizzing by once more, clanging off the metal and veering out of sight. That time, taking a minute to catch his breath anyway, he could make out the distant crowd.

Grasping his sword in his hand—after all the changing weight of the helmet, he needed it to feel substantial, enough to do something with—he steadied himself, preparing to knock the weapon out of his adversary's hands. But no, he wasn't facing a mace, but rather something that could fly at him from any direction. He'd have to approach. How was he supposed to stand a chance?

_Though some types fight each other more often than others, all the types are equally balanced,_ Brutus had written, _with their own strengths and weaknesses. Slave-owners need to gamble, and for that, they want a plausibly fair fight._

If Brutus had even been alive at all. What was a stupid book going to do in the middle of a fight?

Percy charged forward, but immediately jumped to his left to dodge the returning raptor. That time, it sunk into the ground and seemed to fidget there, whirring around through some unknowable magic. His momentum broken, Percy panted again. There was no way forward, not with the helmet he barely knew how to use restricting his view, not with the raptor able to strike him down from behind. He couldn't see anything, not least how he could stand a chance.

Fine.

Nothing left to lose, least of all shame. Flicking the toggle off to the side, Percy pulled the helmet off his head entirely, hurling it down to the dust of the arena, and trapping the raptor inside. A few satisfying clicks of metal on metal told him he'd succeeded, and then he was off again, the brightnesses in the crowd too blurry to be faces. They were screaming, cursing, making noise, and he was, for once, in pursuit of an unarmed man. Dipping his sword down, he lashed out, that time striking the corner of a whirling elbow.

But not quickly enough to fell the short arm. The chase reversed, Percy retracing his steps across the sand, until the dodging target reached the helmet. He'd have to bend down to pick up the raptor, and that would give Percy time to strike. He checked his approach, waiting, only to find the helmet rammed into his chest—positioned between him and the petiatorus, it formed a shield, blocking him from getting closer. Then it withdrew a few inches. Okay, he'd grabbed the raptor, but what...

And then the helmet was flying off at an angle. Arms trained to hurl a smaller weapon could still produce a decent amount of force. Raptor in hand, Percy's opponent took off in another direction entirely.

Did the helmet matter, or could he fight just as well without the weight? Hesitating, Percy edged closer to the helmet—

and fell towards it, as the raptor caught him in the side.

He'd had the wind knocked out of him before, but never with so much noise around him. It was the lowering of their voices—applause, and not for him—that told him something was wrong. He had to stand, no, to reach for his helmet to prop him up, not feasible. His standards dropping with his blood, Percy squinted to see someone approaching through the sand.

Was it the magic in the weapons, to leave his hands under his control, or did his numb gratitude extend to some power beyond the wands in the seats? He couldn't tell. But it wasn't like he wanted to signal the end of the fight. Any hope of a contestable fight was already over, his body trapping the raptor more effectively than any helmet could. So, reveling in that brief freedom, Percy raised his finger.

A wave of color swept through the stands, and Percy thought he smelt smoke. Then one of the officials—what did they do? It had once again felt too short to drag them into the proceedings—was pacing over, pointing a wand at him. Percy winced as the raptor jerked out of him, falling motionless on the ground. And then, his skin was creeping forward, papering the wound over.

"Where else did he get you?" the official asked, politely.

"Er. My leg?" It _had_ been that short, and yet the memory was difficult to grasp.

Nodding, the official cast another spell at his leg, which seemed to chill for a moment. It was still bruised, but Percy found he could stand, and picked his helmet up, tucking it under his arm. Another official had given Terry the same sort of branch George's opponent had received, and he waved it almost playfully as he made his way to the back tunnel. Gingerly, as if testing the sand with each step, Percy followed along.

His hands shook as he took off his equipment, and removing the leg guard seemed to bend his leg out at the wrong angle; no matter where he set his foot back on the ground, it was stiff and tired. Terry removed his much more quickly and ducked out of the room, as Percy fumbled with the arm shield before dropping it onto the table with a satisfying thud.

When he walked out of the room, Oliver was there, eyes bright. "You took your helmet off," he said, almost gasping.

"I'm alive," Percy said. He felt like spreading the news.

"I'd noticed."

"Well, so had I," Percy said—really, what did Oliver think he was doing—and he flapped his arms open for a hug, or in incredulity.

Oliver slipped in, returning the hug, and Percy was standing flush with life, needing someone to grip onto. Just as quickly, Oliver pulled away, but he still looked amazed. "You took your helmet off," he repeated.

"Yeah, I'd heard," Percy said, stepping into the hallway, if only to test his legs.

"You don't understand." Oliver followed. "That was brilliant. They'd never seen anything like it before. Of course you were going to survive, win or lose, it was never in doubt—"

"Well, someone might have warned me!"

"None of us had—we could see your face, do you understand that? You were out there, not sure if you were going to live or die, and you let us _see_ you, all the way through. See, you were brave. You _do_ get it, after all."

_No I don't_, Percy wanted to say, but after all the rush of the day the words fell dead on his lips. After all of that, he didn't want to let Oliver down.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a few days later that, suddenly and without any apparent consultation, Fred and George stopped responding to their lengthened nicknames. Oliver, who had no idea what was going on, at first took it poorly. "Oy! Freddie! Get these boxes out. Let's go!" he yelled, to no response. "Georgie, tell your brother to knock it off."

So they loitered in the kitchen, tilting their chairs back to see how far an angle they could make before crashing over, until Johnny figured it out. "Fred? George?" he called skeptically, his keen voice cutting through the creaking door.

"Thought you'd never ask," George grinned, almost crashing out of his chair as he jogged outside.

After that JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie decided they'd quite like to be James, Jack, Andrew, and/or Richard. It was a nice change of pace, anyway. John seemed more than happy to lose the extra syllable. "Keeps things fresh," he said and shrugged as he poked open another box.

"How about it?" Fred asked, twirling his mace. "Perce?"

"I don't know," Percy shrugged awkwardly, "do I get a say in the matter?"

"Oh, don't tell me you're changing your name. They've only just got the posters set!"

Percy turned, blinking to take in Lee. "When did you get here?"

"Not early enough to keep up."

"It's across the board," John called. "We've all changed our names. Get to work."

"You all may have changed your names, but it's Perc...y...?"

Percy nodded.

"Percy here who's the talk of the town. Very impressive stunt you pulled, there."

"I almost died."

"Well, you gave them something to talk about, anyway. Though you left so quickly! I hear tell some of the spectating ladies were very, ahem, disappointed."

"Yeah, go on, Perce," Fred clapped him on the back, "stick around a bit longer."

Percy, staring at the ground, was spared from having to come up with a retort by Lee asking, "Wait, what are we calling him?"

"It's Percy, it's Percy," said George. "But seriously, Lee can help you around. If you go early to some of the other games, you can meet some of your fans."

"That's really all right," he said through clenched teeth.

"Doesn't have to be that," said Lee, flicking a rogue dreadlock aside. "Bagman and that lot like to see you kept comfortable, putting on a good show. If there's something you want me to bring in, let me know."

"I want—"

He wanted to be like Fred and George, be able to complete his family's thoughts without pausing to explain. He wanted to be somewhere where nobody was trying to kill him. Could he want to be free? To be like Crouch the Second? Even if he wanted to send slaves scurrying in any direction he chose at the flick of a wand, he wasn't sure he could learn how.

Percy looked up to find Lee still staring at him. They were young men, both, but a lifetime of training had made Percy unable to answer the question.

"Do you want a quill and parchment?"

Percy looked again to find Oliver a few paces behind them. "I don't exactly have anyone to write to."

"You have the book."

"I—what?"

"That was quite the fight. Win or lose, you should write about it."

"It wasn't anything that special," he tried to explain. No one seemed to be believing him. "I just...had to try something. Nothing was working."

"You're humble," Oliver said.

Percy rolled his eyes.

"Well, look, I'll use it if he doesn't, so just bring some along, okay? When you can."

"You'll be wanting an inkpot to go with that," John pointed out.

"Oh, of course," said Lee. "And is there anything else I can get you, good sir?"

John clicked his tongue. "Tell you what. Go round up all the women that are into Percy, pretend you can get him to show up, and then talk to them one at a time until you find someone else worth teasing."

"But you, good sir, are so frustratingly handsome."

Oliver shook his head. "Okay, enough. Any news?"

"Er, the elven fronts are going frightfully well. In another bid for peace, the doddering old Minister has offered to appoint an elf to the Department of Negotiation."

"It'd be an improvement on the incumbent. Any real news?"

"No, and why do you care? I can make something up and it'd be just as useful to you as whatever I say."

"Is Fudge still alive?" Percy asked.

"Yes. That's something."

"Oliver's a political junkie, deep down," said Fred. "Just like they're out there betting on us, he has to bet on who'll be named to the Committee for Committees this week."

"There's no such—" Percy began, then broke off.

"There's a thought," said Oliver.

"He's got a point, you know," said George. "But if you're going to make something up, you might as well stick to the human species."

"Okay, John here has been named to the Department of Propaganda, because no one is going to listen to his jokes anyway," Lee said. "Did I do it right?"

"They'll do it right when they appoint you to be the Secretary for Embezzling Quills," said John.

"Does that mean I can appoint my own Undersecretary? Because if I do, I have a couple ideas."

"Okay, c'mon," said Oliver.

But before he could begin, JamesorJackorAndreworRichard spoke up. "What about Harry Potter?"

"Oh, him?" said Lee. "He's, er, been appointed Secretary of Transportation. So if the Floo Powder's too expensive, it's because he's taxing it to supply his private army of fire-breathing owls."

"All right, that's enough," said Fred. "Leave the lying to the professionals."

"Professionals? How much are you getting paid for this?"

"Not nearly enough. Go order me a couple more quills." But even as Fred flapped his hand in mock dismissal, he was showing off the serpent on his wrist into the cool air.

"All right, well. If it's news you want, I went down to the Jorkins school, and the trainer there was in a decent mood for once. Let me stick around and watch practice. Absolutely nothing new."

"So they're not copying our new stratagem, at least?" Oliver smiled.

"Nope. Same as always. No, I lie; their maces are higher-quality. You're due for a replacement."

"These are fine. Just as useless as any, compared to the real magical ones."

"Or has John been sparring too violently with these again? Tut, tut, good sir, tossing around your weight like that won't suit at all."

"You all right?" Oliver interrupted, turning to glance at JamesandJackandAndrewandRichard.

"It's just," one of them replied, "I was thinking. If you really had fire-breathing owls, wouldn't you just call them very small dragons?"

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Take your time with that parchment and don't come back until you have real news."

Lee's idea of real news, delivered a week or so later, was that the Minister had remained upright in public for almost an hour, blathering on again about Progress on the Continent. Speculation among those in the know was far less concerned with what form Progress would take and far more interested in what sort of magical contrivances he'd used to achieve such a feat of prowess. Invisible slaves propping him up? Enchanted puppetry holding him in place? Dubious potions strengthening his balance?

And he also brought parchment, which Percy took and retreated to his room with. He told himself that he wasn't going to write down much and stuck to a one-paragraph summary of the fight, taking care to mention the part where he'd lost.

_Really, it's not worth going on about, except that it is. It's original, I suppose, in that I didn't find it here._ He'd have to wedge it in Brutus' book, once he was done, but not yet. _But if someone else is reading this and needs advice, I would say try to come up with something original—people only liked it because they'd never seen it before. Maybe brainstorm things while you're practicing, but not tell anyone about it until then._

I can't speak for the bloke(s) who wrote this thing, but my name is Percy Weasley and I really existed. You won't have heard of my parents but I'm the brother of Fred and George (by the time you read this they might be spelling their names differently) and Charlie. And Billy, who you won't have heard of either. This was when Cornelius Fudge was the Minister and very old.

He blew on it to dry the ink, found it smeared all the same, and breathed slowly on it until the words took their place and sat in line.

Oliver held it up to the sun, nonetheless, before sticking it in the back of the book. "You wrote that fast, for it being so neat."

"I scribed for Crouch the Second," said Percy. "You need good handwriting."

Nodding, Oliver tucked it in the back. And that would have been the end of it until, a few days later, Percy was watching JamesandJackandAndrewandRichard and John bickering over lunchtime.

"There's no way that—Potter, is it?—could be fighting with centaurs in the north and elves in the south _at the same time._" John postulated.

"Well, he Apparates, innit."

"Well, you go back and forth, but you still can't be in two places at the exact same time."

"Elven magic. It's the Floo."

"Elves don't have the Floo. They live off in the middle of nowhere."

"Lightning makes forest fires, and that's how the centaurs get Floos. In their caves."

"Centaurs don't live in caves."

"How do you know?"

"How do you know they do?"

"Someone had to move in after the giants moved out."

"There's no such thing as giants."

"Not anymore, the Ministry killed them all."

"And anyway they wouldn't fit."

"They're very big caves. Big enough to put stone fireplaces in."

John, exasperated, had left the table, and JamesandJackandAndrewandRichard had followed along. But minutes later, they were sparring like none of that had ever happened, maces and short swords flying. Having seen the real magical weapons in action, Percy felt even more unsure what to make of the practice equipment they were stuck with. No matter how far the others tossed raptors around, it could never compare to what he'd just survived.

"Can I borrow the book again?" he said. "Margin notes, you know."

"Do you still have any other parchment?" Oliver asked.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." He didn't bother to explain how he had felt, reading through the different pages where multiple people's sentences ran into each other, and wondering maybe if he could be part of that. Better to just get on with business.

_You should try and think through things in your head, practicing against the stakes if at all. I'm not sure how much things will change by the time anyone else reads this, but apparently not too long ago it was more common to fight your own school rivals than outsiders, and—you probably wouldn't want anyone else to learn what you're thinking._

"How long has it been since anybody else has read this?" he asked, once he'd returned it again.

Oliver squinted. "A year or two now? People...don't seem to like reading much. The ones who stick around for a while...well, some of them don't need it. What I mean is, they take to it so naturally, whatever they were doing before just prepares them well. Like—"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon."

"It's not—"

"Is it historical? Useful? Some rubbish about honor? You could write it down, it'd fit in the book."

Oliver paused, looking down, and then said, "Your brother was like that. Space. Your brother, Charlie, I mean. Curvy sign of missing the point. He was really brilliant. It doesn't matter, I guess, but to watch him fight, it was beautiful. Curvy sign of finding the point again. Margin note. Not that, I mean, he would have...cared who thought he was beautiful. Nor does he now, I assume. Wherever he is."

Percy paused, and then shook his head. "You're impossible."

"I get that a lot. One of the reasons you're the first one to read the book in that long."

"I don't even—_curvy sign of missing the point_? Do you mean a _parenthesis_?"

"Is that what it's called?"

"Yes. Why—no. When did you know Charlie?"

"Years ago, now."

"You've been here this whole time?"

"Yeah. More or less. That is, Bagman doesn't know what else to do with me."

"Well, thanks."

"...Any time?"


	12. Chapter 12

Fred and George conversed with each other. Percy didn't know what about. They had low voices, when they wanted to, that ran into each other. Nothing magical about it, and—unlike the faces they could project to the outside world—they didn't seem to be finishing each other's sentences so much as actually having a conversation, discussing ideas, offering counters like normal human beings.

It was just an appearance, anyway, and Percy didn't get too close.

Until the evening when everyone had sort of crowded around one side of the yard, avoiding the sun's glare, and Fred waved him over into the shadows. "Oy. Percy. Want to do us a favor?"

"Sure," said Percy. What could they possibly ask of him?

"In...a couple days...I'll let you know right before, just—watch out for Oliver, and if he seems bored or doesn't have anything to do, just...go over and start talking to him. About your book or whatever. So long as he stays occupied."

"Where are you going?" There was no way they could escape. Could they?

"Not far. Just, nowhere he needs to follow us. We'll be back all in one piece."

"And you're asking me because..."

"He'll listen to you. Or at least, talk at you whether or not you're listening."

"He talks at everyone whether or not they're listening."

"Yes, well, you don't get bored of it."

And that was true. For all Oliver didn't wear the snake around his wrist, they were still more or less equals. It boggled his mind, really, how little the others seemed to care. Didn't they know what they were in for? Or were they all like Charlie, graceful, competent, not needing to hover over the words on dead paper?

He squirmed through the following days. Supposing Fred thought he'd given him a sign, the tiniest flicker, being used to his easy back-and-forth with George, and Percy missed it because Fred hadn't made it clear enough? But then one day as they were leaving lunch, there came a tiny wink, and Percy gritted his jaw, ready for the challenge.

_If he seems bored_, Fred had said. Well, what was that supposed to mean? "Er, do you have a minute?"

Fred, following George out the door, gave him a brief, wide-eyed look before vanishing. Maybe more than a minute was called for?

"No," said Oliver, "I'm afraid I have an appointment in the city tonight, can't spare a minute. Sorry!"

"...In the city?"

"I was trying to be funny?"

"Leave that to my brothers," said Percy, a half-second before remembering that drawing attention to the twins was just what he was not supposed to be doing. "Er. I had a question about Brutus' book."

"Yeah?"

"Who published it? I mean, the written pages at the end were just people like me, I guess. But the first few chapters? Who'd go to the trouble of typesetting a book just for fighters?"

"Well, maybe Brutus won his freedom and got it published afterwards?"

"But we've never heard of anybody like that?"

Oliver paused. "I guess maybe you'd know."

"See, I don't think there was ever such a person."

"And it got written, nonetheless!"

Why had Fred asked for a distraction? Whatever he was going to do, he could have done while Percy and Oliver repeated the same conversation for the zillionth time. "But no single person learned enough about all these different styles of fighting and cared enough about being honorable."

"See, some of that would have been borrowed from the soldiers, rhetoric and all that. Name ends in 'us,' he was probably a volunteer anyway. D'you know, if he _watched_ enough of it, beforehand, he could probably have written most of it. And then have it published..."

"And then gotten himself killed right away, because he didn't actually know what he was doing?"

"When you put it that way..."

"I mean, I'm asking _you_, do you think I know what I'm doing?"

"I think—"

"Oy! Oliver!"

Oliver broke off to face a terrified Spinnet, her short hair bouncing behind her as she broke off a sprint. It wasn't like she could have had that far to run. "What?"

"The Weasleys are sick. I dunno if it was something in dinner—if I didn't know better I'd say they were drunk."

"What?" Percy blurted.

"They're just stumbling around. I heard the noise, and I thought something was wrong."

"Well obviously something is wrong, if they're not well." Was _that_ part of their plan?

Oliver turned towards Percy, head tilting. "Did you all have the same dinner?"

"Yeah. But I feel all right."

"Well, you go check on Messenger, and, er, whatever the other percullors are calling themselves today, I'll see what's wrong with those two jokers."

"They're my family, I can deal with them." He couldn't really remember them, from growing up, though he supposed there must have been times when they were sick, Mum too tired to chase after them. Billy or Charlie would have kept them busy, and Percy was learning to read, learning to be helpful, at something that wouldn't get him killed. Some good that had done him.

"Yeah, all right. Just...don't catch anything."

"Like you guys won't?"

"We're used to breathing our own sweat."

"I had to put up with John all last week when he was sick, never caught anything." And of course, under Crouch the Second there was no taking days off for illness either.

"There is that. Okay, good luck."

Percy nodded, walking off across the yard. Fred and George were leaning against the far wall, against the rooms opposite Oliver's. Did Spinnet live over there? Was that why they weren't supposed to break in? And yet nobody seemed to have much time for her, certainly not to give her her own wing.

"Oy!" he called, his voice dropping as he continued. "Did the, er, 'sickness' throw off your brilliant plans?"

"It's not catching," George waved him over. "Nah, Spinnet just heard us banging around, decided to complain, so we tried to get her to clear out."

"Mission accomplished."

"Not really," said Fred, "but thanks for your help."

"Do I even want to know what you were doing?"

"Testing security. Making sure no saboteurs can come in and...interfere with our practices—"

"Give us food poisoning—" said George.

"That sort of thing."

"That's convincing," said Percy.

"Extremely accurate. Much like the rubbish in whatever book you go on about."

Percy rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

After Fred and George's impressive "recovery," Percy didn't hear anything about the escapade until a few weeks later, when Lee showed up again and seemed a bit put out. "You could have just asked me."

"And what would you have done?" George challenged.

"Helped. Eventually."

"That's no promise," said Fred. "Time moves quickly. Can't guarantee we'll be around by your next visit."

"Actually, I can."

"Oh, and why's that?"

"Because," he said, pulling out an envelope, "I have the next assignments, and neither of you are on it."

"They trusted _you_ with the assignments?" John groaned.

"Of course not. But the first-choice courier has been re-enslaved for sympathizing with goblins, the second-choice betrayed some bloke to the elves, and the third-choice seems too rich to bribe. So that leaves me."

"You're too rich to bribe."

"I'm not. I just squander all my earnings on extremely dubious companions."

"You should buy slaves, then you could make someone laugh at your jokes."

"If only you'd been on the market. Or were you a freeman, first?"

"Never mind that, what've you got in that envelope?" By that time the others had crowded around and were listening intently.

"It's going to be a proper long day," said Lee, opening it up. "They've finally got that new Robertson Moor stadium open."

"Back to the intraschool fights?" Fred gulped.

"No. Not unless half of you have changed your ruddy names _yet again_," he said, passing the paper over to Oliver.

"No," said Oliver. "Jack is...you." Jack gave a nod. "What, Percy again? That's not fair."

"What?" Percy blurted.

"They're scared of John fighting again. He's too good, it's not even fair," said Lee. For once, he seemed half-serious.

As Percy stared at the sand, Oliver continued to read. "They really are going to town, good grief. They even want Spinnet."

"Do you even have a second name?" JamesorJackorAndreworRichard asked.

"Spinnet is my second name," said Spinnet.

"She's freeborn, they all do," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard. No, it was Jack, the one who wasn't looking up.

"All right then," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard, "what's your _first_ name?"

"Anaximander," said Spinnet.

"Isn't either."

"Aloysius."

"No."

"Oldest daughter," said John.

"Shove off."

"All right, Lee, make yourself useful for once and find out what this git's name is."

"Anything for you," Lee gave a mock bow.

"As everyone's too scared of me to fight, I suppose I'll be around after this arena dedication or whatnot. And so, for that matter, will whatever her name is." John rounded on Spinnet. "Ridiculous women's fights. No one's even trying."

"You don't think I'm trying?" asked Spinnet.

"You don't need to try."

"You're freeborn too, don't start."

"Hold it," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard. "Wasn't there that woman who got killed, before we came?"

"That was an accident," said John. "It didn't count."

"Of course it counts," Spinnet said. "The stakes _are_ high—"

"Okay," said Oliver, "that's enough. Jordan, did you bring any Floo Powder?"

"I tried," Lee sighed, "but I'm afraid I was bribed by a rogue elf who wanted to smoke it, so do keep an eye out for a couple annoyed slaves coming to escort you."

"I'll do that." Oliver refolded the letter, shaking his head. "Thanks."

"Oh, any time. Good luck to the lot of you...Percy, Jack. Augusta?"

"Goodbye, Lee," said Spinnet.


	13. Chapter 13

Something about the new Robertson Arena struck Percy as off when they, eventually, Flooed there. It certainly wasn't the ornate decorations in the walls, brightly-colored stones glimmering by the light of strange torches that barely gave off any smoke, or the portraits of wizards and witches slowly pacing down the slightly-curved walls of the building, their wands aloft and harmless jets of light drifting slowly from the floor to the ceiling. He lingered a while to watch them, their faces always in profile, but they never spoke.

Further on there were painted animals, but those remained still, so they probably weren't even transformed Animagi. The balls of light cast by the painted wizards would reflect off the top of the painting, bounce down onto the animals, and then pass right through them.

The others seemed equally curious, John scoffing at the unrealistic depiction. Only the escorting slaves seemed impatient, urging Oliver and John to hurry along, but giving Percy a wide berth. None of _them_ were afraid it would be their last night alive.

"I hope the food's better," said Fred, "at this new place."

"Oh you _would_," said John.

"What?"

At least, by the time they eventually made it, the door to the dining room was more elaborately decorated with thin sheets of metal. Percy caught sight of his reflection as they went in. Blurred, almost colorless, but if he didn't know better he'd have said he looked strong. He was a little taller than the twins, and as the door rotated outwards they were all three briefly distorted for a moment before shuttling inside.

They took their seats at the back. The layout was similar to the previous stadium, though the tablecloths seemed to twist themselves into knots and return having cleaned themselves somewhat more often. This was entertaining the first time it happened to George, who had to leap out of the way of the silverware that flew up in the air, and less so by the third time Percy had to wait as his plate hovered above him. As far as he was concerned, the food was just as strange, though Fred was mollified.

"It's just nerves," said George. "Go on, scarf down some more."

"Yeah, all right," he said, and it wasn't that bad.

"Okay!" Spinnet eventually called. "So I—"

"Can shove off," said John. "You're in no risk."

"What if she was going to tell us her name! Lee'll be mad you interrupted," Fred protested.

"Yeah, and so much the better. Jackie, speech?"

"I'm _Jack_," said Jack, "and if I snuff it James and Andrew and Richard know what to do."

"Yeah, but _we_ don't, that's kind of the point."

"Nah, you don't care."

"You should get married," said James, who had finished off both Andrew and Richard's second helpings.

"What, now?"

"Sure, so I can look after your wife."

"You are such a lazy club, you can't even find your own women."

"I'm not lazy, I'm, mmm...making the best use of limited resources. And you're one to talk!"

"No, I'm not, that's the thing of it, I'm just quiet."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Oy," came a voice from behind, "Aemilia?"

Percy blinked to see Lee pacing over, followed by a tall slave woman who squinted at him. "What do you want?"

"Er—nothing. Sorry. I was talking to _Aemilia_ here," he said, giving an exaggerated nod at Spinnet.

"That's not my name either, now shove _off_," Spinnet repeated, while John glared between the two of them as if unsure who to resent more.

"There's posters all around this place, how thick are you?" said Fred.

"How thick are _you_?" Lee retaliated.

This seemed somewhat a weak reply, in Percy's view, but it was George who answered the question. "Fred doesn't have time to look at posters. He's been too busy chatting up the portraits on the walls."

"Speaking of outside," said Aemilia the slave, "you ought to get settled in. Come along."

But when they caught another glimpse of the walls, only the large animals glared at them. By that time, the bright faces of the tigers, wolves, and dragons seemed spaced too far apart; the wizards in the pictures had wandered off. Even portraits were more free to move around than them.

As they made their way to their rooms—those at least seeming much better lit—Percy froze up. "Wait a minute. Who even _built_this?"

"Wizards?" said Fred. "Witches? Slaves?"

"If you steal a giant's fire," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard, "they'll do your bidding. You can make 'em haul stone!"

"That's not true," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard. "You just have to cast a spell at them."

"No, you have to snuff out the fire, then they'll grant you a wish, but after that they die."

"They don't die. _You_ die when their mates hunt you down."

"Buddy mates or mate mates?"

"Mate mates. Mate."

"Giants don't have mate mates."

"They do so. The centaurs officiate for them, and then as payment the giants go fight wizards for them."

"Oh, giants don't fight wizards. We'd all be dead."

"That's what _I'm_ saying. You can't even steal their fire. They'll squish you."

"But why?" said Percy. "I mean, why would they build another stadium? I mean, everyone can just Apparate to the old one."

"Oh, quit complaining," said Fred, "these ones don't smell like rubbish."

It was a new stadium, but the same old Minister in the upper boxes, the same old Ministry having the time to spend on painting dragons and shining doors. How was anything supposed to change?

The new bed had few adornments to speak of, and was firm but higher off the ground than the thin cots from Ellis Moor. Really, how long would it take Aemilia or the others to haul them through the Floo? Percy yawned, trying to call the tactics he knew to mind, but it wasn't long before he was dreaming of mirrors, a single face reflected in a thin door until it became two, a hand drawing a sword to become two blades that could pass through each other, and leave no mark.


End file.
